Fair Play

by Deirdre Martin

  “Absolutely. They’re offering a lot of money, Theresa.”

  “Money isn’t everything.”

  “That’s true,” Reese agreed. “But having enough of it can free one to pursue one’s passions. Like writing, for instance.”

  “Or photography.”

  Reese raised his glass. “Amen.” His hand squeezed hers. “Tell me you’ll at least think about it.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Theresa promised, surprised to find herself feeling mildly irritated the conversation had turned to business. Eager to deflect further comments or questions, she asked him to finish the story he’d started about being thrown off the crew team.

  Reese resumed his tale.

  He was a good, descriptive storyteller, but Theresa found it harder and harder to focus. One part of her brain was taking in what he was saying and directing her body to respond with the appropriate smile, laugh, or question. The other part was picturing them hand in hand, walking along the beach, eating dinner at her mother’s house, raising children. She knew she was jumping way ahead of herself, but she couldn’t help it. The impulse to imagine a future with him was irresistible, especially since there was such a spark between them. It was there in the way he looked at her, like she was a gorgeous puzzle he was eager to solve, and in the warmth of his hand atop hers, which she was now getting used to, and actually enjoying.

  He had to be as aware of it as she.

  Could he be The One?

  Before they knew it, the bar was closing and they were drifting towards the door.

  “Where do you live?” Reese asked, once again taking her hand. Theresa let her fingers curl around his. It felt good. Right. So much easier than she thought it would be.

  “Fifty-ninth and First. You?”

  “Eighty-ninth and Park.”

  “Swank-ky,” Theresa teased.

  “Want to split a cab?”

  “Actually, I feel like walking.” The words came out more quickly than she intended. And they were true—she was a ball of energy and excitement, and a walk would help her run through and analyze everything that was said between them tonight. But there was something else. She didn’t want to deal with the possibility of his suggesting she invite him up for a nightcap.

  Reese checked his watch. “It’s awfully late.” He looked concerned. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Theresa assured him, hoping he didn’t notice she was a walking contradiction of fear and desire. They pushed through the front doors and stood beneath the club’s awning, hands still entwined. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said softly.

  “No, thank you.” He brushed his knuckles tenderly against her cheek. “Can I call you?”

  “Of course.”

  He seemed to hesitate. “I need to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but you’re beautiful, Theresa. You must know that.”

  Overcome, Theresa looked down at her feet.

  “I would love to take some photographs of you sometime. Nothing fancy, just some black and white shots done in different lighting. Your cheekbones alone . . .” He trailed off.

  “I don’t know,” Theresa murmured shyly, raising her head. “I have to think about it.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Do that.”

  “I will,” Theresa promised.

  Reese rocked back nervously on his heels. “Well, then . . . good night.”

  Theresa’s heart fluttered expectantly as she anticipated his kiss. But it didn’t happen, at least not the way she expected it to. Instead of kissing her on the mouth, Reese leaned in and pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead. In an instant, fear and desire turned to relief and disappointment. Releasing his hand from hers, he murmured, “I like to take things slow. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.”

  Enchanted, she watched as he hailed a cab and hopped inside. As its taillights faded to two glowing red pinpricks of light, Theresa reached up and touched her cheek where Reese’s hand had been.

  He was so gentle and tender.

  So honorable and kind.

  And he thought she was beautiful.

  Happier than she could remember being in months, she floated all the way home.

  “Okay, now tilt your head to the left a little. That’s right.”

  Blinking against the glaring lights in Reese’s makeshift photo studio, Theresa did as he asked. At first, the thought of being photographed had terrified her. It was such an intimate process. But Reese had worked hard putting her at ease, carefully explaining to her how everything worked and letting her dictate the poses she was comfortable in. She had almost bolted when he’d asked her to remove her glasses and let her hair down, but after thinking about it, she acquiesced in the name of art. Reese wanted to capture her, her essence. That meant there could be no hiding. No disguises. Allowing herself to be truly seen was terrifying at first, but then it felt wonderful. To her surprise, she found herself reveling in the attention.

  He’d been photographing her for close to two hours now, and she was tired. Reese must have sensed it. Sympathy played across his boyish face as he put down his camera and came to where she sat against a dark blue backdrop.

  “You okay?” he asked, stroking her hair which he’ d arranged around her shoulders like a gorgeous, silken mantle.

  Theresa closed her eyes, nodding.

  The feel of his hand on the back of her head . . . the warmth . . . it was soothing somehow. Reese paused, then his fingertips began to feather lightly across the nape of her neck. The soothing feeling faded, replaced by something much more primal she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for a long, long time.

  She held her breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Taking his time, Reese’s fingers found their way to her earlobe, his touch remaining light as air. Yearning filled her, sharp and sweet.

  He was torturing her, couldn’t he see that?

  If he could, then he was obviously enjoying it, as he began running his hands up and down her arms. Theresa swallowed nervously as her skin responded to the demand in his touch, her nerves pulsing and alive.

  “Tell me something,” said Reese.

  Theresa opened her eyes.

  “Are you afraid of me?”

  She searched his face. “Why on earth would I be afraid of you?”

  “Because you seem a little nervous,” he murmured, taking his thumb and slowly, tantalizingly, running it back and forth across her bottom lip. “And I just want you to know . . . that you never have to be afraid of me. I’ll never hurt you.”

  “I know that,” Theresa whispered.

  “Good.” Her lower lip continued tingling from his touch as he extended his hand to her and she rose, facing him. Eyes never wavering from her face, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Tentative, Theresa reached out and did the same. She half expected him to evaporate in her arms. But he didn’t. He was solid. Real.

  And he wanted her.

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she managed, her breath hitching.

  “Why not?” Reese pulled her closer to him, the distance between their lips mere inches now. “Is this so frightening?”

  “No, but . . .”

  She was unable to finish the sentence as he leaned forward, closing the gap between them with the faintest brushing of his lips on hers, their mouths barely touching. Moaning softly to himself, Reese pulled her even closer. Theresa’s lips parted on a sigh as he put his mouth full on hers, pressing hard as he nipped at her bottom lip. Gasping, her mouth opened beneath his in complete submission. He tasted faintly of wine, but there was something else there, too, sweet and feral at the same time, that she wanted to lap up and roll around on her tongue and taste. Heart thundering in her ears, she slid her hands up under the back of his Oxford shirt, caressing the center of his warm, silky back tenderly. Reese groaned as their soft, lingering kisses turned into sleek,
demanding glides of tongue against tongue.

  Feverish, he tore his mouth from hers. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered thickly.

  Theresa shook her head no.

  He nodded once, then resumed kissing her. Theresa felt heat exploding low in her belly as one of his hands found its way to the hair at the nape of her neck while the other went to cup her bottom. They were both breathing hard now, the still, silent air around them punctuated with their soft moans and sighs. The way he was making her feel . . . sacred, cherished—and for the first time in over two years, gloriously alive . . . filled her with a sense of gratitude she had to give voice to. She pulled back and looked lovingly into Michael’s face.

  “Thank you, Michael,” she managed in a voice just above a whisper. “Thank you for—”

  She jerked awake, disoriented.

  She wasn’t in a photo studio, but in her own room, in her own bed. And there was no Reese and no . . . Michael. But her nipples were hard, and the heat inflaming her body was real. “Just a dream,” she muttered, drawing her blankets tighter as she curled back up into a little ball. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

  But even half asleep, a small part of her wondered.

  The next morning, Theresa could hardly wait to get to Janna’s for brunch so she could dish about Reese. The Blades were on a road trip, and it had been ages since they had been able to carve out “girl-time” together. The game plan was brunch, followed by an afternoon of watching videos on Ty’s huge HDTV.

  What is it with men and electronics? Theresa mused as she rode the elevator up to Janna’s apartment on the fifty-second floor. She recalled a boyfriend in college who would pace like a caged animal each month as he waited for the next issue of Stereo Review’s Sound and Vision to arrive. When it came, he’d read it cover to cover, drooling over speakers.

  She didn’t get it.

  Entering the apartment, Theresa was greeted by the enticing aromas of coffee brewing and muffins baking. “Oh my God, that smells great,” she marveled as Janna took her coat.

  “I hope you brought your appetite. I’m making us an omelet, too,” said Janna, ushering Theresa through the huge glass-walled living room into the state of the art kitchen.

  Before Janna moved in, the apartment was a high-tech bachelor’s paradise, all steel, chrome and glass with no personal warmth. Janna had added some life to it. Strategically placed plants and pots of herbs were everywhere; there was artwork on the walls, and opulent Oriental rugs graced the highly polished marble floors. Theresa always felt a pinprick of envy when she visited. Ty and Janna seemed to have it all: a beautiful home, a great relationship. She knew from Janna they had to work at it, since Ty wasn’t the most emotionally expressive of men—unless it came to hockey, which Janna jokingly referred to as “his mistress.” Even so, they seemed so simpatico, so happy. I want that, Theresa often thought longingly.

  And maybe now, with Reese she would find it.

  “It still amazes me you like to cook,” Theresa marveled, sidling up to Janna, who had just started chopping basil. Careful of her fingers, Theresa reached out and took a taste. It was tart but not too bitter.

  “It still amazes me you don’t,” Janna returned.

  “I know,” said Theresa, resting her elbows on the counter. Since Janna was a control freak when it came to cooking, she knew it would be pointless to ask if she should help. “It just seems like so much work for so little payoff.”

  “The payoff is nourishing the people you love,” said Janna, scooping the basil from the board and reaching for a colander full of mushrooms.

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “Your mother’s right.” Theresa watched as Janna’s small, nimble hands made short work of the mushrooms. “I bet she’s also the reason you don’t like to cook.”

  “What do you mean?” Theresa asked.

  “I think it is so important for you not to be like her that you deliberately reject anything that even resembles domesticity.”

  “Tell me more, Dr. Freud.”

  “You know what I mean.” Dumping the mushrooms into a bowl, Janna reached next for a small block of fontina cheese, giving her friend a concerned once over. “You look tired.”

  A Mona Lisa smile played across Theresa’s lips. “I was out late last night,” she said cryptically, knowing it would get Janna’s attention.

  “With?” Janna asked, her gaze divided between Theresa’s face and the cheese she was now cutting into cubes.

  “Reese Banister.”

  Janna’s eyes darted quickly to Theresa’s. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.” Theresa wasn’t sure why, but she felt mildly wounded by the hint of incredulity in Janna’s voice. “You yourself said you noticed us making eyes at each other at that first meeting.”

  “Yeah, but I never thought—” Janna seemed to stop herself, taking a long break as she concentrated on finishing the cheese. “I guess I don’t know what I thought,” she concluded lamely.

  “He’s wonderful,” Theresa gushed, determined to make Janna see him through her eyes. “He’s smart, tender, considerate and artistic.”

  This time Janna didn’t mask her skepticism. “Whoa, slow down, sister,” she ordered. Crossing over to the fridge, she pulled out half a stick of butter and a carton of eggs. The butter she set to melting in the skillet atop the stove. She broke six eggs into a large metal bowl and began beating them.

  “I want to hear everything,” she told Theresa.

  So Theresa told her everything, ending with the mutual confession that they felt like they’d known each other for ages. Through it all, Janna listened intently. By the time Theresa was through, the omelet was done, the fresh blueberry muffins were sprung from the oven, and the coffee was poured and creamed. Theresa sat down at Janna’s table with a satisfied sigh and waited for her friend’s response.

  “He sounds perfect,” Janna said dryly, biting into a muffin.

  Theresa felt her hackles rise. “I know that tone of voice, Janna. What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Ter, okay?”

  Theresa nodded, feeling her shoulders knotting.

  “Did the subject of the Butler buyout come up?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what context?”

  “Reese wanted to know if we’d given any thought to the proposal, and I said we’d been too busy to talk about it.” She slashed away at her omelet. That was the smallest, most insignificant part of the evening. Why was Janna focusing on it? Then she realized. “You think he’s using me, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “No, but you do,” Theresa accused, now sure of it. “You think I’m so desperate for a man I can’t tell whether someone wants me for me, or for their own agenda. You think I’m too stupid to see the difference.”

  “Theresa.” Janna’s voice was gentle as she put down her knife and fork. “I don’t think that at all.”

  “Good, because it’s not the case. We really connected, Janna. I don’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy, but it was like some soul thing.” She looked to her friend for confirmation. “Didn’t you feel that with Ty?”

  Janna nearly choked on her omelet. “No! With us, it was some sex thing. The soul stuff came later, after I stopped thinking he was just an arrogant, uncooperative jackass.” She glanced down at her plate, breaking off a piece of muffin. “I’m sure Reese is all you say he is—”

  Theresa frowned. “But.”

  “There’s something about him,” Janna continued thoughtfully. “I don’t trust him.”

  “Why? Because he’s a lawyer?”

  “Because he’s a lawyer being retained by a company who wants to swallow us up.”

  “One thing has nothing to do with the other,” Theresa insisted. “You’re confusing who he is with what he does, Janna. That’s not fair.”

  “Maybe,” Janna allowed. “But I still think . . .” She trailed off. “Never mind.”r />
  “No, tell me. You’re my best friend and I want to know what you’re thinking.”

  “I was turned off when he showed up unannounced with his uncle. I felt like we were being ambushed.”

  “Go on,” Theresa urged, pausing for a sip of coffee.

  “Who brought up the Butler buyout when you were having drinks last night?”

  “He did,” Theresa admitted reluctantly.

  “And that doesn’t bother you?”

  “Janna, we were talking about work. People do talk about work in the course of getting to know each other, you know. It wasn’t like he just brought it up out of the blue.”

  Janna’s gaze was steady as she drank some coffee. “Did he offer his opinion about what he thought we should do?”

  “Of course he did. He’s a lawyer. Lawyers always offer suggestions whether you want them to or not.”

  Janna was unblinking. “Let me guess: He thinks we should sell.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “None of this bothers you?”

  “No, because unlike you, I’m able to separate who a person is from what they do.”

  Janna wasn’t buying it. “I don’t know. There’s something about his bringing it up that I find unethical.”

  “My friend, the moralist,” Theresa snickered.

  “Don’t make fun, Terry. You know I believe in gut instinct. And mine tells me—”

  “That there’s more to him than meets the eye,” Theresa finished for her, pressing her lips into a hard line.

  “I guess,” said Janna, sounding deliberately noncommittal.

  “Well, then, we’ve got a problem here.”

  “Because your gut tells you the opposite,” Janna deduced.

  “Absolutely. I don’t want to sound completely nuts, but I think he might be The One.” The mere words brought a suffused glow of warmth to her body.

  Janna, meanwhile, was staring at her as if she were nuts. “What about Michael Dante?” she asked.

  “Oh my God.” Theresa’s head dropped down to her chest in mock defeat before she snapped it back up again. “What are you, his agent?”