Power Play

by Julie Cannon

  She woke up alone back in Phoenix, Tate in the shower and her suitcase unzipped and sitting on the couch. Tate must have retrieved it from the trunk of her rental car, and for the second time Victoria was touched by her thoughtfulness. After their flight to Brussels, they collected their bags and passed through customs, then separated, going to different hotels. Their meeting with Braxton was the following day.

  Studying the map, she traced a route with her finger. She was headed for the Grand Place, the central town square in the heart of Brussels. Constructed in the early 1400s, it was the number-one tourist attraction in Belgium, and she couldn’t wait to see it. Victoria folded the map and put it in her back pocket, comfortable that she knew the way. Brussels was a safe city, but she didn’t want to advertise too loudly that she was a tourist. Of course as soon as she stepped out of a shop carrying a shopping bag, all pretense of being a local would vanish.

  The streets were practically empty this early September morning. Europeans started their day far later than she was used to. Very few shops were open for business and she strolled in and out of those that were. She walked up and down the streets, often veering off her route, but not so far that she got lost. The streets were narrow, often with cars parked bumper to bumper, and she wondered how, with little to no room, they ever got out.

  The closer she got to the Grand Place, the more the architecture began to change. Relatively modern buildings slowly transitioned into ones made of block and stone that reflected the era of the Grand Place. Small shops with narrow doorways were tucked into the buildings so discreet she almost missed them if she wasn’t careful.

  The chocolatiers were by far the most popular stores, followed closely by those that sold lace and, of course, the typical tourist trinkets. Mass-produced mugs, plates, and shot glasses bearing famous statues, buildings, and museums in Belgium were displayed in every store window. When she finally entered the Grand Place, she stopped and took it all in. It was more marvelous and stunning than she had imagined.

  To her left was the Museum van de Stad Brussel Broodhuis. Directly across the street was the former Hotel de Ville, now the town hall. Next to it was the Maison des Brasseurs, a modest building, considering the size of the other buildings bordering the main square. Jostled by a fellow tourist, Victoria moved into the square.

  There were more people here than she had seen on the street. A lone vendor was positioned in the center selling drawings of every famous building in Belgium. People posed for pictures or simply stood and gazed in awe. Young lovers walked hand in hand, families chatted, and an old woman holding on to the arm of a young man slowly walked across the expansive space.

  Several restaurants bordered the square, and Victoria sat down at one of the tables on the patio. A waiter quickly appeared and she ordered a cappuccino. A movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she looked up at the same time Tate Monroe asked, “How are you feeling?”

  Victoria didn’t recognize Tate immediately. She hadn’t expected to see anyone she knew, but the vivid green eyes couldn’t belong to anyone but Tate. She looked young, her hair tousled by the wind, her cheeks flushed from the cold morning air. She was dressed in black, her leather jacket Victoria recognized as one she had almost bought from a J.Crew catalogue.

  “Better, thanks to you.”

  “May I join you? I promise, no talk about your illness. And no talk about business,” Tate added when Victoria didn’t immediately answer.

  “Would you like a cappuccino?” Victoria said without thinking and motioned for her to sit.

  “Yes, I would, thank you.” Tate settled onto the chair to her left.

  Victoria flagged down the waiter and ordered.

  “You speak French,” Tate said, a combination of question and statement.

  “I’m a bit rusty, but it’s surprising how quickly it comes back once you start using it again.”

  “Kinda like jumping back in the saddle after a long dry spell.”

  There was no mistaking the innuendo in Tate’s comment. An itch of arousal skidded over Victoria’s shoulders and down her back and settled uncomfortably between her legs. She wanted to counter with an equally witty reply but her brain had other ideas. Finally Tate filled the silence.

  “Where did you learn to speak it?” Tate scooted her chair a little closer to Victoria.

  “High school. Everyone else was studying Spanish and I refused to go along with the trend so, to my parents’ chagrin, I took French.” Steam drifted up from her cup just before she took a drink.

  “A bit of a maverick in your youth?”

  “I didn’t think so, but my parents would probably say otherwise.” Victoria pictured the faces of her parents.

  “Where did you grow up that Spanish was all the rage?” Tate stirred a packet of sugar into her steaming cup.

  Victoria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “San Antonio.”

  Tate laughed. “I can see why there’s not much call for French in a state that borders Mexico.”

  “That’s exactly what my parents said. But they let me take it anyway and I fell in love with it after the first class. Four years in high school and another four in college.”

  “You went to UCLA, right?” Tate blew on her cappuccino before she took a tentative sip.

  “That’s right.”

  “We were practically neighbors. I was at Ohio State.”

  “You consider twenty-two hundred miles as neighbors?” This time Victoria laughed. “Even if we had been, I’m sure I was long gone by the time you got to college.” Victoria had often speculated on their age difference, guessing it was closer to twenty years than ten.

  “You’re not much older than I am,” Tate replied.

  “I’m sure I am.”

  “Prove it.”

  Tate’s tone was more inquisitive than demanding. She was obviously fishing for Victoria’s age so Victoria answered. “I’m forty-four.”

  “I never would have guessed. I would have said mid to late thirties.”

  “Flattery will get you another cup of cappuccino.” Victoria caught the waiter’s eye.

  “What would I get if I said you have amazing blue eyes?”

  Victoria’s stomach flipped and she struggled to keep her expression neutral. She took a calming breath. “You’d get a polite ‘thank you.’”

  Tate visibly relaxed. “Better that than a slap in the face.”

  “Do you often get slapped?” Victoria was teasing, trying to make Tate smile.

  Tate shook her head and thought a minute. “Thankfully, no. I usually know what the woman’s reaction will be beforehand.” The women she was drawn to were usually her age or younger with the same uncommitted position as hers. She didn’t view herself a player, or a slut, for that matter. She saw herself as more of a realist, and when she wanted the company of a woman or needed to touch another soft warm body, she did. Nothing overly complicated or debauched about it.

  But Victoria was different. She was poised, sophisticated, sure of herself in a very sexy, sensuous way. Her hair looked soft and thick, she was always impeccably groomed, and the clothes she was wearing even as a tourist whispered sophistication. Tate’s dates weren’t trash, but certainly not like Victoria either.

  Earlier, Tate had been sitting by the window in a café not far from her hotel when she saw Victoria walking down the sidewalk across the street. She almost hadn’t recognized her. Her blond hair was down and blowing in the light breeze. Her jeans were tucked into flat-heeled knee-high black boots. Silver buckles on the sides glinted in the morning sun. Her dark jacket was zipped to her neck, her hands snugly inside the side pockets. Tate had quickly paid her bill and hurried after her.

  She followed at a discreet distance, choosing to observe Victoria instead of making her presence known. Casually Victoria window-shopped and strolled along. She barely glanced at the typical tourist shops, instead spending time in the quaint local boutiques scattered along the cobblestone street. She spent at l
east thirty minutes in a small leather boutique, exiting with a box bearing the logo of the store. The box was large and Tate wondered what she had bought. She had followed Victoria into the square and suddenly wanted to spend more time with her. Tate had surprised herself by asking if she could join her.

  The waiter brought the bill and Tate reached for it. “My treat. After all, I invited myself into your quiet moment.” She dropped the required Euros on the table. “Wanna play tourist with me? I promise no pictures. I hate being in cities by myself. Especially one so steeped in history.” She knew she was babbling, with a touch of BS thrown in, but she didn’t want Victoria to leave. “Besides, you can translate for me.” Most of the shopkeepers spoke French.

  “What did you have in mind?” Victoria asked, obviously cautious.

  “May I?” Tate reached for Victoria’s map. “We could start with the places around here. There’s the museum, the town hall, and all the shopping. After our feet get tired we can have lunch over there and figure out what to do next.” Tate pointed to another outdoor patio.

  After a few moments, during which Victoria unaccountably flushed, she said, “All right. You’re in charge of the map.”

  Tate quickly helped Victoria into her jacket. Victoria grabbed the package she had bought earlier and followed Tate off the raised platform toward the museum.

  Two hours later, they were walking down one of the streets that spoked off from the Grand Place. Victoria stopped in front of a small shop and studied the display of lace in the front window.

  “Wanna go inside?” Tate asked.

  “I don’t want to bore you with my souvenir shopping.” Victoria started to move on.

  “I wouldn’t be bored. Isn’t that what being a tourist is all about? Shopping?” Tate hated shopping as much as she hated her annual physical, but both were necessary. It was obvious that Victoria wanted to go inside, and at that moment Tate wanted to do nothing but give Victoria what she wanted.

  “Come on.” Tate opened the door and stepped inside the small, musty shop.

  “Bonjour. May I help you?” An old woman Tate guessed to be in her seventies appeared from a narrow doorway.

  Victoria spoke to the woman in French, and she quickly disappeared through the door she emerged from.

  “What did you ask her?” Victoria had been translating all morning.

  “If she had something special as a gift for my mother.”

  The woman returned before Tate had a chance to say anything else. She watched closely as Victoria gently touched the lace. She and the woman spoke quietly, their heads bowed in concentration. Several times the woman went back through the mysterious doorway, each time returning with another piece that Victoria inspected. Finally Victoria selected the one she wanted and the woman disappeared with her selection again.

  “Is that a tablecloth?” Tate hated to sound so ignorant, but she was way out of her league with this kind of stuff.

  “Yes.” Victoria searched through her backpack.

  “How did you know what size?” God, what a stupid question.

  “I was with my mom when she bought the table. We must have gone to every furniture store in Texas before she found what she was looking for. Weirdest vacation I ever had.”

  The expression on Victoria’s face was happy, even if her last comment was sarcastic. Tate flashed on her mother and father and quickly shut the thought down.

  “What was so special about this shop? We must have passed a dozen shops that sell lace tablecloths.”

  “Because everything in here is handmade. The woman creates everything in the back.” Victoria indicated the door that the woman had disappeared into. “Nothing is mass produced on a machine in here.”

  “You handled it as if it were a treasure,” Tate said carefully.

  “Isn’t it?” Victoria replied as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

  Tate was about to say something else, but the old woman returned with Victoria’s purchase in a plain brown bag.

  Victoria handed over her credit card, and after doing some quick math, Tate was stunned by the amount she paid. A treasure indeed.

  “Tell me about her,” Tate asked as they stepped back out onto the cobblestone street.

  “My mother?”

  Tate nodded.

  “She’s a nurse. She keeps threatening to retire but my dad won’t let her.”

  “Why not?” A wave of melancholy washed over Tate as Victoria fondly spoke about her parents. She had nothing but bad memories, all of them involving screaming, slapping, and other assorted forms of bruising bodily contact. Her father was a mean drunk, taking out his frustrations on those closest to him even if it meant climbing the stairs and dragging her out of bed to hammer on.

  “He says she’ll have too many honey-do’s for him if she sits home all day. Like my mother would sit home all day.” Victoria laughed and, like a woman on a mission, headed straight for a tacky souvenir shop.

  “And speaking of my dad, he’ll love this tie.” Victoria held it up to show her and started laughing. “This is my dad all right. He speaks to the world through his ties. He says they reflect parts of his personality he can’t usually show. He’s an accountant,” Victoria explained. “This is perfect. It’ll be his way of saying ‘piss on the world.’”

  The tie was dark blue with dozens of images of the famed statue “Manneken Pis” on it, each one about half an inch tall. The fountain depicting a naked little boy urinating into the fountain’s basin was a famous landmark in Brussels.

  “Do you buy something for your parents everywhere you go?”

  “No, but Belgium is famous for its lace and the ‘Manneken Pis.’ Who can resist?” Victoria handed the clerk twenty Euros. After she got her change, she looked at Tate. “How about some lunch?”

  They ate at the De Gulden Boot and sat outside facing the square. While Victoria studied her menu, Tate studied her. When she first met Victoria, her height was the only thing she saw. Now after several meetings and spending the morning together, Tate had discovered so much more.

  In addition to Victoria’s stunning beauty, she treated everyone she met with respect. Clayton could take a lesson from her, Tate thought. Victoria had a fabulous sense of humor. One minute she was totally serious as she studied a painting; the next she was making a wisecrack about all the fruit in another. She was bright and witty, and she obviously loved her parents. If only Tate could say the same about hers. Tate hadn’t spoken to or seen her father since high school, and she had no idea if he was even still alive. She doubted it but had no desire to waste her time finding out.

  As they sipped their third cappuccino of the day, Tate took her first good look at the square. She had totally focused on Victoria when she was here earlier, and barely glanced at her surroundings. Lights strung across the square from corner to corner lit up the space under the overcast sky. Tate was no expert, but she thought the lighting detracted from the natural beauty of the buildings. It probably provided much-needed illumination, but seemed too commercial.

  “What do you think?” Victoria’s voice drew her back from her study of the ancient buildings.

  “I’m sorry. What do I think about what?” Tate shifted her full attention to Victoria and spotted a small drip of foam on her upper lip. “You have some whipped cream right here.” Tate wiped the offending cream off Victoria’s lip with her thumb before she had a chance to use her napkin.

  The instant she touched Victoria’s lips, Tate’s body lit up, as if on fire. Heat ran from her thumb to her toes, settling in that special place in the middle. She cupped Victoria’s cheek, her fingers disappearing into the thick warm hair.

  Their eyes locked and the square was suddenly soundless. The sounds of laughing children, people talking, and the soft rumble of the storm clouds vanished. The only thing that existed was Victoria. Tate didn’t know if she was breathing or not. If not and she died, the feel of Victoria’s warm, soft lips would be the last thing she remembered.

 
; Victoria barely had time to register what Tate said before she touched her. Her skin burned, then tingled under Tate’s soft hand. The look in Tate’s eyes took her breath away. Pure desire was staring back at her, and she had no doubt that Tate wanted her. A rush of pleasure warmed her. It had been a long time since someone had looked at her like that, especially someone as young and vibrant as Tate.

  For a few moments she basked in the feeling before she gathered her wits and remembered that Tate stood between her and Braxton. Tate was her adversary, not someone to take as a holiday lover. Victoria broke eye contact first and spoke to Tate, who looked as distracted as Victoria felt.

  “I asked if you wanted an authentic Belgian waffle for dessert.”

  “Sounds good.” Tate’s hand seemed to be shaking when she removed it from Victoria’s face. She stumbled getting out of her chair and cursed when she banged her knee on the table leg.

  Tate followed Victoria out of the square and as they walked by a shop Tate froze. In the window stood a mannequin wearing a black thong, red-and-black garter belt, black fishnet stockings, and next-to-nothing bra. Other equally revealing lingerie with either more or less lace filled the rest of the window.

  “Tate? Are you all right?” Victoria glanced around to see what she was staring at and also froze when she realized what it was. “Oh, my,” Victoria murmured.

  The sexy and provocative lingerie was obviously doing to Tate exactly what it was designed to do. She seemed so dazed Victoria almost had to shake her to get her attention.

  Without taking her eyes off the sight, Tate asked, “Wanna go in there?”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.” This was the first time Victoria had dared acknowledge the sexual attraction between them.