The Glory Game

by Janet Dailey

  Before more protests could be made, she left the table and walked as quickly as she dared to the exit. Once outside, the fresh air hit her and the vague feeling of dizziness became suddenly overwhelming. She pressed a hand to her head, trying to stop the spinning inside it while her other hand groped for any kind of support until this merry-go-round in her mind stopped turning.

  An arm went around her at the same instant that she felt a body beside her. She leaned gratefully against its solidness. “Pardon, monsieur. Un moment.” Luz breathed in deeply, filling her lungs with the warm night air and letting it sober her. “Merci.” As she moved away from the supporting chest and shoulder, she looked up and recognized Raul as her kind Frenchman. “Well, my lord of nothing has come to rescue me again.” It was hurt pride that made her mock him. She angrily pushed his arm away from her. “I don’t happen to need your help this time.”

  “I will see you safely into the car,” he stated, and motioned to the drivers lounging by a rear fender of one of the hired cars.

  As she looked anywhere but at him, she began to notice the silvery sheen of the Seine, the bright pattern of lights shining out from the huge galleon and the faint dusting of stars overhead. A summer night in Paris should be filled with gaiety and laughter. She longed to be carefree again. Young and foolish. Why not?

  It was almost with defiance that Luz faced Raul, indifferent to the approaching car. “I want to dance. Everyone who comes to Paris should dance, and I haven’t yet.”

  “The car is here.” Raul nodded toward the waiting vehicle.

  She heard the opening of a car door and glanced impatiently at the capped chauffeur ready to assist her into the rear seat. “He’ll wait. He’s getting paid for it. Dance with me,” she ordered, holding out her arms. “You’re Argentine. We’ll do the tango. You must know the tango.”

  There was a trace of double-edged sarcasm in her voice, some of it coming back to sting her. Yet she’d gone too far to stop. When he failed to move, she took a hand and placed it on her waist, then slipped her hand into his left one and extended his arm out from his side.

  “Are you ready? One. Two. Three. Ta da-da-dum da-da-da.” But he made no attempt to follow her steps. “Don’t you like the tango?” Luz challenged. “It’s so appropriate.” She choked back the laugh in her throat to keep the fine edge of hysteria from bubbling through. “The Last Tango in Paris.” But he found nothing humorous in her feeble joke. “All right. If you won’t dance with me, I’ll ask the chauffeur.” Releasing his hand, she turned toward the car and the waiting driver.

  He stopped her. “We will dance, but not the tango.”

  “Very well. Not the tango,” she agreed, this time waiting for him to take her in his arms and begin the dance.

  The pressure of his hand on her back was familiar, and she let it guide her. After several steps, Luz recognized the formal pattern of the waltz. She hummed a melody as they danced along the street, the night turning glorious. The feel of his arms and the scent of his cologne stirred up longings she had thought were buried. She closed her eyes to shut them in, but the dance’s sweeping turns began to affect her shaky equilibrium. She lost a step and staggered against him, breaking the rhythm and the spell of the dance.

  “I think we’d better stop,” she said with her head down, then lifted it to look blindly around, her bearings lost. “Where’s the car?”

  It was some distance behind them. Raul signaled the driver to bring the car to them while he kept a supporting hand under her arm. When the car stopped beside them, he opened the rear door and helped her inside. Luz sat back in the seat and leaned her head against the curved back. She shut her eyes, feeling more lonely and hurting than before and still unable to come to terms with the jealousy she felt toward Trisha.

  The rear door opened on the other side. She lifted her head in surprise when she saw Raul slide into the passenger seat beside her.

  “You don’t need to come with me,” she protested. “The driver will take me back to the hotel.”

  “And where will you have him stop along the way?” Raul challenged.

  Luz had no argument to offer and turned away to look out the window. “I suppose you think I’m drunk. I wish I were—then I wouldn’t know what I was doing.”

  “To the hotel, monsieur?” The French driver looked at their reflection in his rearview mirror.

  “Yes.”

  As the car traveled along the street, Luz stared at the deep-shadowed woods of the Bois de Boulogne that loomed beside the boulevard. A scattering of faint light was dimly visible through the thick foliage, marking the roads and avenues that wound through it.

  “Driver.” She leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder. “Take us through the Bois.”

  “Le Bois de Boulogne? Non, madame,” he protested vigorously as he stared at her through the mirror. “It is not safe at night. It is filled with the lowlife—the prostitutes and the crazy Brazilians who dress in woman clothes. Non, madame.”

  “I want to see them. Drive through the park.” This time Luz made it an order, and settled back into her seat, ignoring his grumbling in French. Under protest, the driver obeyed, turning the car into the park at the next entrance.

  The centuries-old trees towered on either side of the road, one of many winding through the large park on the west side of Paris. The lights from the staggered streetlamps illuminated the massive trunks, but could not penetrate the leafy roof overhead or the deep shadows beyond the roadside. Everywhere there was darkness and a sense of isolation, kept at bay by the overlapping streams of light from the car’s headlamps.

  At a lighted intersection with another of the park’s meandering avenues, a car was stopped close to the curb. A woman in a tight, short dress with stiletto heels stood near the passenger side, bending at the waist to talk to the driver inside. A man was beside her, while under the streetlamp two more women waited, their clothes and heavily made-up faces marking them as prostitutes.

  The chauffeur barely slowed the car as he swung it around the parked vehicle and checked for crossing traffic at the intersection. In that brief moment, Luz saw the man, obviously a pimp, open the passenger door and give his hooker a shove inside. Then they were past the car and her peek into that other world ended.

  A match flared in the shadowy corner Raul occupied. Luz turned and watched the play of yellow light over the hollows and planes of his face as he lit one of those slim black cheroots. The flame was blown out along with a stream of smoke. Briefly the air inside the car was tainted with the smell of burned sulfur before the swirl of tobacco smoke asserted its aroma. Luz sensed the unspoken disapproval in that glimpse of his sternly drawn features.

  “Aren’t you amused by this tour of the seamier side of Paris?” she mocked.

  “No.” His attention appeared to be centered on the burning tip of the slender cigar between his thumb and fingers.

  Luz turned her gaze toward the road ahead of the car, the area now dotted with more prostitutes, some with pimps, some alone, standing and smoking or talking to one another, or strolling singly or in pairs, but all eyeing the car as it approached them. They all seemed to have the same bored expression.

  “You can get anything you want here,” she said cynically. “Drugs, sex—twenty minutes worth of love. All for a price, of course.”

  They came up behind a car creeping along the road while the driver perused the selection of sexual goods for sale. The grumbling chauffeur was forced to slow down, but even the reduced speed didn’t allow much reaction time when the vehicle in front of them suddenly braked. Cursing, the chauffeur yanked on the wheel and slammed his foot on the brake pedal, tires squealing as the car stopped crosswise in the road. Luz was thrown sideways against Raul. Instinctively, he held on to her.

  Sensations flooded her, from the hard strength of his arm and the strong smell of tobacco smoke on his breath. Her hand was flattened onto his chest from bracing herself. She could feel the smooth texture of his jacket and the lapel edges.
Beneath it was the strong beat of his heart. All she had to do was tip her head and his lips would be on hers.

  With more smothered cursing, the chauffeur maneuvered the car back onto its original course. “Are you all right?” Raul’s low-pitched voice seemed to vibrate against her.

  Luz closed her eyes, wanting to say no she wasn’t, but of course she couldn’t. There was nothing wrong with her—nothing at all.

  “Yes.” Her hand stiffened to push herself away from him and back to her own side of the seat while she kept her face averted and looked out the window instead. She lifted her chin in an unconscious assertion of fierce pride.

  Outside, fewer prostitutes lingered under streetlamps until they finally traveled through an area where there were none. When the car turned onto a connecting lane, they seemed to pass from one section to another. Again she saw women along the roadside, only these appeared better-dressed than the last. Higher-priced whores, she guessed with vague indifference.

  After they had passed several, she sensed something was wrong. It became a very definite feeling when Luz noticed a tall, slim girl with long dark hair that hung almost to her waist walking a Doberman. No hooker would do such a thing. The reputation of that dog’s breed would deter any prospective customer from approaching her. Surely a woman alone, even with the dog to protect her, wouldn’t choose this area for an evening stroll.

  Her curiosity aroused, Luz took special note of the next pair they passed. Again, her eye was initially drawn to the better quality of their clothes. Although the accessories were slightly garish, the style of dress drew attention away from the obvious flaws of their figures—thick waists and narrow hips.

  “They’re men,” she realized.

  “Oui, madame” the chauffeur replied. “The so-called Brazilians who all the time dress up in women’s clothes and parade through the Bois. Some try to pretend they are prostitutes, then rob the man. Les policiers, they try to get rid of them. They come back—like the rats in the sewers of Paris.”

  She’d seen female impersonators before in clubs, but she had never encountered any transvestites. They hardly traveled in the same circles, she thought wryly. As they approached three more men in drag standing beneath a lamppost, Luz noticed one of them had on a particularly fetching dress, but the silk scarf knotted around the neck like a bandana exhibited a definite lack of style. It ruined the whole effect of the dress.

  “Stop the car,” she said.

  “Madame—”

  “Halte!” It angered her the way he argued over her every request. With great reluctance and objection, the chauffeur stepped on the brake.

  “What are you going to do?” Raul demanded, but Luz saw no reason to explain her intention to him.

  She opened her own door and started to climb out of the car. Raul caught at her arm to stop her, but she twisted free and stepped into the street. “Wait here,” she instructed the driver. “I won’t be long.” Muffled cursing came from inside the car, this time in Spanish, when she shut the door.

  With no traffic in sight, she started across the street, angling toward the female-clad trio under the streetlight. Her steps quickened when she heard the slamming of the passenger door on the opposite side. Before the sound of running feet caught up with her, Luz approached the transvestites, who were eyeing her with suspicion.

  “Un moment,” she requested, and pointed to the one on the left, wearing the sandy blond wig. “L’ écharpe” She indicated the scarf knotted around his throat. “L’ écharpe n’ est pas chic comme ça.” The footsteps halted somewhere behind her as she reached for the silk knot to show him the proper way to tie it. False-lashed eyes looked at her with mistrust as he drew back. “S’il vous plaît,” Luz insisted and reached again for the scarf.

  This time he didn’t pull away. Adroitly she loosened the knot and fluffed the silk print material until it lay in a soft ring around his neck. She retied the knot, less tightly, and let one end of the scarf trail down his back while the other fell to the front.

  “Voilà.” Luz stepped back and gestured to the others to view her handiwork. They nodded their approval.

  “Merci.” But the man still appeared skeptical and confused by her action.

  “De rien.” She shrugged aside his thanks and backed away. “Bonsoir, mesdames.” Luz caught her mistake and laughed. “Bonsoir, messieurs.”

  When she turned to walk back to the car, Raul was beside her in a single stride. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her upper arm. There was no eluding this grip that propelled her across the street to the car parked with its motor idling.

  “Idiota,” Raul muttered, and no translation was required, though Luz knew only a few words of Spanish.

  The chauffeur hopped out of the car to open the door for her, while throwing wary glances toward the three transvestites, who were conversing in murmurs beside the lamppost. Raul made sure she was inside and the door was shut before he walked around the car.

  When he slid onto the seat beside her, Luz said, “If they’re going to dress like women, they should know how to do it properly.”

  “To the hotel,” he said to the driver. “There will be no more stops.”

  “Qui, monsieur,” the man replied with obvious relief.

  “I don’t know why you’re so angry anyway.” She flashed an impatient glance at Raul. “What were you afraid they were going to do? Rob me? I left my purse in the car, so all they could have taken was my jewels and they’re insured. Rape wasn’t likely. I’m sure they know it usually takes two hands to pull down a pair of panty hose, which makes it rather difficult to hold the victim.” Silence was her only answer. Sighing heavily, Luz tipped her head back to rest it against the seat. “All right. So maybe it was a stupid thing to do.”

  The car emerged from the park onto a busy Paris street. She closed her eyes, wishing … she didn’t know for what. That she wasn’t so confused, so lonely? The glare of streetlights flashed across her closed eyelids. She let her thoughts drift, not focusing on anything except the lulling motion of the car.

  When they arrived at the hotel, Raul went inside with her, obtained her key from the room clerk, and escorted her to the elevators. Luz supposed she should resent his actions, but she rather liked this solicitous concern to see her safely to her suite. Her earlier pain and anger and defiance were fading as her mood turned wistful and a little sad.

  At her suite, Raul unlocked the door and pushed it open for her. She walked straight into the sitting room and deposited her purse on a chair. Unconsciously she reached up and began pulling the pins to free her hair from its French pleat.

  “The key is on the table.”

  Turning at the waist, Luz glanced back to the door, where Raul stood just inside the suite. His hand motioned toward the kingwood bureau standing against the wall, indicating where he’d left the room key.

  “Fine.” She stared at him, drawn by an attraction she couldn’t deny. She was conscious of his leanly muscled physique and the steel-blue eyes. He looked so strong and capable.

  “If there’s nothing else …”

  “No.” She squared around, turning her back to him once again, and dropped the hairpins onto the chair beside her purse. Her glance strayed to the door of her private bedroom. The prospect of climbing into that bed and lying alone made her ache. She wanted to be held and loved and needed by someone. Hugging her arms to ease their empty feeling, Luz absently caressed her shoulders. “I want someone to make love to me.” The declaration seemed to echo through the room.

  “Do you always get what you want?” Raul demanded harshly.

  Luz swung around to face him. “I’m a Kincaid.” She had always had everything she wanted until now.

  “I should have guessed. You expect people to perform according to your command, no?” he challenged, and she was too sensitive to rejection not to see it in the iciness of his expression.

  Angrily, she hurled words at him, hurting inside. “Just get out! Get out and leave me alone.” She bolted a
cross the room to the small refrigerator where the miniature bottles of liquor were stored.

  “Shall I ring for a maid to assist you?”

  “No!” She wanted him to take her to bed—not a maid. Her fingers closed tightly around a gin bottle as she braced herself with one hand flattened on the refrigerator top. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. Just go away!”

  For a moment there was no sound in the room except for the harshness of her own breathing. Then she heard the door shut. She shook with quiet sobs. Her gaze fell on the small liquor bottle in her hand. She swept it away from her, along with the glasses and ice canister. All went crashing onto the carpeted floor, bouncing and rolling across it with a muffled clatter. Her hands clutched the edges of the refrigerator as she sank to her knees.

  “Good gracious! What’s going on out here?” Emma came bustling out of her room, tying the sash of her long cotton robe, a satin scarf around her head to protect her hairdo while she slept. “Are you all right, Luz?”

  “Yes.” She scrubbed a hand across her cheeks to wipe away the tears, then pulled herself up.

  Emma’s slippered foot accidentally kicked a glass and sent it rolling against a chair leg. “What’s all this mess?” Her gaze narrowed suspiciously on Luz.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Emma, although, Lord knows, I’ve given you cause to think I’m always drunk. But no more. It never helps. It only makes things worse. I realized that and—” She waved indifferently at the drink items strewn across the carpet. “What you see is the result of that discovery.” She watched Emma pick them up and stack them back on top of the small refrigerator.

  “Where’s Trisha?”

  “With the Chandlers. I … I left early.” She ached inside, and it was a heavy, hollow feeling. “It’s hard to get used to being alone, Emma. I don’t know what I’ll do if Rob and Trisha stop loving me, too.”

  “That isn’t likely. You’re their mother. What you need is a good night’s rest. Nothing ever looks quite as gloomy in the morning.”