by Leslie North
Her first thought: I can’t afford this…every dime goes back into the tech.
Her second, third, and fourth thoughts: Marcus can’t see red.
What the hell was the matter with her? Since when did Marcus Kingston become her litmus test for every waking moment? She reverted back to her first thought. Claire was nothing if not level-headed.
“Jo, it’s beautiful. Not me, but beautiful. I’ll take it back in the morning.”
“Too late. I might have dropped a hint with Keane’s wife when I saw her out shopping. She told me to tell you it’s a gift for suggesting a sleep clinic. Turns out Keane has apnea. No three-hundred-pound linebacker snores next to her at night anymore. She said that kind of peace was worth twenty silk dresses.”
“Jo—”
“We’ll make it you. I promise.”
Jo repositioned Claire to catch her reflection in an entryway mirror, dress held in front. Only one thing would make it her: Clay’s dog tags around her neck. An appropriate statement for a military gala. But each time she slipped the chain over her head, she was overcome with a sense of melancholy.
Her wearing them meant he couldn’t. Ever again.
And that, more than anything, recommitted her to keeping her emotions off the playing field.
A woman on each arm, Keane strutted into the Gerding Theater the next night. Dripping in gold light from bulbs strung from the high ceiling, the industrial-style, two-story event space could not have been better for a military charity event. From the raw shell of the building, Claire could still picture the armory it had been in the 1800s; in the beautifully carved wooden trusses and modern materials that enclosed a breathtaking gathering space, she believed Clay was with her.
Despite the evening chill, the warm cloak of her brother’s nearness settled on her shoulders. Since his passing, she often found herself in situations beyond her comfort zone. Clay used to tell her she needed to get out more, look up from her computer screens, notice life passing her by. She believed this night was him trying to make his point again as he so often did, pulling fate’s strings from beyond this world.
She wouldn’t disappoint.
“I’m ready for my ten minutes of bliss,” said Keane, rubbing his hands in anticipation.
Jada Keane rolled her eyes and hip-bumped him. “He thinks these events are ten minutes of untainted fun—”
“Followed by hours of complaints about how her heels torture her feet.”
“Which then gives you the perfect excuse to have them in-hand later.”
Keane wagged his brows, kissed the back of Jada’s hand as confirmation, and politely excused himself to get them drinks.
Claire never imagined professional athletes could be so funny, so down-to-earth, so absolutely attuned to the needs of others. From the moment the formal evening began, he lavished attention on his beautiful wife, talking up her law firm and her history with international regulations and corporations affected by ever-changing trade agreements. Jada aimed to enter into diplomatic relations somewhere in the Pacific Rim but knew Keane’s career had a time limit. There would be plenty of time for her dreams once his were in the record books. That someone so worldly, Ivy-League educated, and sophisticated could make a relationship work with someone like Keane was a revelation to Claire. Together, they were a sight to behold. Not perfect. Just real.
“You look spectacular, Claire. The hanger did not do that dress justice,” Jada said.
Claire was certain she was just being polite. She heard Jada tell someone from the local media out front, when asked, that her white silk shift was an Alexander Wang. The designer could not have found a better ambassador for his dress. She looked as if someone had poured cream at her shoulder, and it settled into all the right places on her body.
“You’re generous. In gift and kindness. I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You getting your technology on those soldiers will be thanks enough. My father was a Marine, and his father before him. Our soldiers deserve the best.”
Jada gave her a covert tour of the room, attaching unmistakable physical characteristics or dress to the names of those who would most help Claire advance her objective. Valuable insight crowded Claire’s brain, including which men often deferred to their wives on matters of social importance and which attendees had fewer degrees of separation from the Pentagon than others. Jada ended her in-depth study of the room with another less-formal directive.
“Remember to have fun. Wait for them to ask what you do first. That way, they feel like they’re in control of the conversation.”
“Sounds like expert advice.”
“Works on Keane every time.”
Claire and Jada shared a laugh, promptly interrupted by the receiver himself.
“Far, far too many secrets over here.”
He handed them both an on-the-rocks martini, two olives. Claire rarely drank but was grateful for something to fill her hand.
“What works on me every time?” he pressed.
Jada leaned over and placed a charming kiss on his cheek.
His eyes crinkled to slits; his smile rivaled the twinkling lights.
“Every time,” he said.
A flurry of flash bulbs lit the entrance. The overall noise in the room swelled. Claire glanced toward the commotion and spotted Marcus dressed in a smoke gray three-piece suit with a silver tie. He was classic and tailored with just a bit of flash. A gorgeous blonde in a silver beaded cocktail dress that captured the lights when she moved hung on his arm.
Claire gripped Clay’s dog tags. A powerful urge to remove them and slip them into her clutch, to hide the ugly metal marring her glamorous dress, overcame her. She washed it away on a robust gulp of gin and tried not to hate herself for the errant thought. Competing with Marcus’s date in the looks department was a lost cause anyway, even if she wanted to. She wasn’t here for any reason except to impress upon potential investors how her tech could save lives on the battlefield.
She politely excused herself to mingle. Some of the men and women Jada mentioned were friendly, standing in small groups, making the first attempt at introductions. Most often, the conversation centered around Clay’s dog tags. The soldiers and officers, past and present, wanted specifics, like where he served and when—a point of contact with a powerful brotherhood. Their dates would often comment on the loving sentiment worn with her beautiful dress. As he had in life, Clay broke the ice for Claire to shine through.
For those in attendance who weren’t as easily approached, Claire found a conversational bridge in Sterling. Thirty minutes into the event, he introduced her around as his “secret weapon” and loudly professed she would be a soldier’s greatest ally since Garrett Morgan invented the gas mask in 1914. And when Sterling excused himself to take a phone call, Claire found herself alone—a state that normally gave her great relief, but not in social situations. She allowed her gaze to trail upward to the building’s architecture.
“Claire?”
Nerves that had been tangled in her stomach all night stretched for her fingers and toes. The voice was unmistakable. In truth, she had honed her senses to hear it since he arrived and chided herself for why she should care. Maybe she just wanted Marcus to see her as something other than an eccentric nerd.
She turned to him, realized he was alone. Most of the party guests had ventured downstairs to the dance floor where a guitar quartet plucked out a painfully slow emo version of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.
“Hi,” she said.
“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.”
“Keane invited me. He said there would be good contacts here.”
“He’s right.”
Marcus seemed distracted from the conversation, not by anything outside their abandoned corner of the room but by something between them. His gaze strayed from hers. She rested her hands at the railing and stared down into the sea of dark suits and gemstone-colored dresses as the singer crooned.
You’d be like heaven to to
uch.
Marcus’s blonde seemed to be the crown jewel, dancing with a man who had an impressive block of military honor bars on the breast of his coat.
“Your date is stunning.”
“She’s a friend,” he replied, though Claire hadn’t asked. His earlier words—soft woman of my choice—sprouted from her memory. Because Claire functioned best with numbers, she wondered how many there had been.
The non-kiss was there between them, just as she predicted it would be. If she was to get their interaction back on professional terms, she had to be direct.
“I lost my head earlier. It was totally unprofessional of me, and I apologize for putting myself in that position. I don’t want our sessions to be awkward because of it.”
“It?”
“You know…”
“I’m afraid I don’t. Refresh my memory.”
His expression was irritatingly blank. Claire squirmed and glanced around. They were as alone as they had been on the practice field. Surely he didn’t mean…
“When you…you know…almost kissed me.” Half-whisper, half mumble. As if the music didn’t drown out all conversation that wasn’t mouth-to-ear.
“I almost kissed you?”
So much for his blank expression. Hand covering his Windsor knot, brows pinched, he looked genuinely affronted but for the gleam in his eyes.
Claire glanced around, expecting to see Sterling or Marcus’s soft woman of his choice or, worse, Keane. The teasing would be relentless. “Yes.”
Marcus smiled and shook his head. “I request a review on that call because that’s definitely not how it happened. You were practically falling onto my lips.”
Her first thought: God, what a pillowy place to land.
Her second thought: No. Just no.
“Instant replay would show you and your smirk and your cockiness and your what-color-are-your-eyes play.”
“None of which are a precursor to a kiss. You crossed into my personal space.”
“To position sensors.” Her voice pitched high, defensive. Dodging bullets in an 1890’s military drill, this building’s original purpose, would have been preferable to defending her tech and integrity against someone determined to make her task difficult. She knew he had wanted the kiss as much as she had, but now, outside that moment and compared to his soft woman of the evening, Claire just didn’t measure up. It soothed his ego to put this on her. Still, she needed him. Needed this plan to work.
She squeezed her fist until her nails buried painful trenches in her palm.
“It won’t happen again. Goodnight, Marcus.”
Claire turned for the stairs.
“Hold it.”
5
Claire paused. The shell of her body stiffened like the spine of the building overhead. Inside, she was the swinging lights, all chaotic movement at the whim of a man who had built his career on unpredictability.
“Tell me what you really want to say.”
“Marcus…please.”
“Tell me.”
His tone was edgy, commanding. A man used to getting his way.
Her sizzling comebacks warred with the plan. She couldn’t afford to let her mouth jeopardize her chance to make a difference. There was a reason Clay’s life ended and hers continued. Her tech was her reason. Nothing would stand in her way.
“Show up tomorrow, seven a.m., and I’ll tell you.”
It was the best leverage she had. For now, it was enough. Claire left him on the landing, hands buried in his pockets, lapels puckered against his hard body from the stance. Her exposed back felt his stare all the way down the steps as acutely as if he had inserted a web of needles beneath her skin. She was relieved the Gerding Theater was architecturally complex enough to conceal the rest of her retreat.
Or so she thought.
The moment she bid Keane and Jada goodbye to hail a cab, she glanced up. Marcus remained at the second floor railing, his eyes tracking her.
As if Claire’s cryptic bait to get Marcus to her early-morning session hadn’t been enough, a text from her popped up on his phone at six a.m.: Meet me in film room #3. 7:00. Sharp.
The prospect of easing into what was sure to be a grueling team drill day with a cup of coffee in a dark tapes room instead of on the field offset the annoying wake-up chime on his phone. The prospect of seeing Claire again lit him up like his bed was on fire.
His empty bed.
Katya had been all over him the moment they crawled into the back of his Escalade after the charity event. Normally, he preferred to drive, but Sterling provided a fleet of drivers on nights when alcohol might impair judgement. His Swedish date took his backseat freedom as an opportunity for foreplay. He’d let her get as far as placing his hands between her thighs before he pulled back. He simply couldn’t when it was no longer her, but Claire, he wanted beneath his touch.
He had been so freaked out by where Claire’s body took him of late that he asked the driver to escort a pouting Katya to her door. How had he allowed someone like Claire Wynifred so much real estate in his mind? He sank against his supple leather interior, much as he did now against his high thread-count sheets, and recreated Claire in that dress.
He would have given his entire signing bonus to know its real color first-hand. Not in words or description, but to drink it in through his flawed eyes and become intimate with how it pressed upon his senses. In his deficiency, he had come to believe color had texture and noise and taste. He wanted nothing more than to taste Claire’s color.
From the front, she had been all business, all smart and understated. Her back, however, had taken him off his game of remaining cool and unaffected. He had been right about her never stepping out into the sun, for her skin, from her shoulder blades to the slope at the small of her back, was flawless, captivating, touchable. Her descent down the stairs nearly sidelined him.
But for all the glamour—the subtle way she had pinned her hair, the respectable hemline that skimmed her knees, her diamond stud earrings, lips he guessed were the same hue as her dress by their tone—he missed her eccentricities, the subtle oddities she hid behind that telegraphed the real person beneath. The only hint of the real Claire had been her brother’s dog tags, a sight that had cemented his determination to cooperate.
He showered and made it to the film room in record time. At first, he was alone with some equipment she had set on a back table. He settled into a center recliner, lights dim, and pulled the slightly bitter Colombian roast past his lips. He no longer needed the caffeine jolt. Anticipating Claire was enough.
And that scared the hell out of him.
She was here because he was a means to her end. Nothing more. The season would end, and she would be gone. She had said as much herself—we work toward the same goal, we both get what we want. He just wished he could feel something—anything—that wasn’t tied to the game. If his past dictated his future, he would be dead without football.
Claire breezed through the room’s back entrance, his helmet in hand. The sight was familiar—she had handled his helmet the entire last session—outfitting wireless sensors in precisely the right places, taking him through a series of questions designed to maximize input without compromising his focus and attention, not realizing she had managed to single-handedly do that just by being there and almost kissing him. And though the sight of her holding his gear was familiar, he never tired of it. Equipment to a football player was beyond intimate. An extension of the man. What allowed him to be his best. Her hands on his helmet no longer triggered his defenses.
Somehow, it felt safe.
“Good. You’re here.” All hint of awkwardness from the previous night was gone from her voice, replaced by the fast-forward version of Claire, as if she had already taken the first ten paces without him. She handed him a take-out box. “I brought you breakfast.”
“I don’t eat this early on practice days.”
“Nonsense. I spoke to the team nutritionist. Made to his strict orders at the breakfast c
afé Keane told me was your favorite.”
The scent wafting through the Styrofoam seams was amazing. Marcus’s stomach growled.
“Thank you.” He popped open the lid, unwrapped the plastic fork and dug into the anemic-looking egg-white omelet loaded with lean protein and veggies. His taste buds awakened with pleasure.
“I don’t know about you, but my brain malfunctions on a diet of coffee and coffee. And we’re after your mental game today.”
“Nothing wrong with my mental game,” he said around a mouthful. “Injury was to my passing shoulder, remember?”
“Right, but your mental game is what separates you from your peers.” Claire turned around a stray metal chair at the front of the room beneath the big screen and sat straddling its back. To some, a casually masculine thing to do. To Marcus, who had battled back images of her straddling him more than a few times since the previous night, a move that short-circuited his eating.
He cleared a cluster of eggs lodged in his throat.
She wore a button-down plaid shirt with paisley suspenders and guy jeans rolled at the cuff and cinched with a man’s tie through the belt loops. A handful of sharpened number two pencils skewered her hair, twisted high in the back. One wrist sported an absurd number of bracelets; the other was bare.
This—this was Claire.
He settled deeper into the cushion of his recliner, fresh off the first compliment he could remember her lobbing his direction, and finished his breakfast.
“Yesterday, we focused on configuring the tools for optimal feedback. Today, we’ll work on how to utilize those tools to up your game.”
“I’m all yours.” The words were out before he could bite them back. But she was in Claire-mode. If she read an alternate meaning into his expression, she never indicated it.
“First, we look at the baseline.” She handed him his helmet and retreated to the back of the room.
Marcus slid on his helmet when the screen before him showed life. She had added components to it the previous day. He settled into the feel of her alterations. With time, the additions would feel natural.