The Bluffing Game

by Verona Vale

  “And what if you’re wrong? What if you’ve missed something? I know that woman, the one who never looks at you when she speaks. She’s a contract lawyer, and a fucking good one. You think she would take a losing case?”

  “I didn’t know why anyone would take this case until you stood up just now—and now it makes sense. I think she’s betting on you cracking like this, just like the rest of them. She’s betting on you not trusting your counsel, which, once again, is exactly what you’ve been doing. How many lawyers have told you these people simply don’t have a case?”

  “Just you. And one other. The first one.”

  “And you didn’t trust him.”

  “I did trust him. But I told him the same thing I told you. It doesn’t matter if they have a case or not. We can’t go to court, or we lose the investors.”

  “And did he suggest calling their bluff?”

  “Of course he did. But he and the investors disagreed on two of the exact same things you said. One is that they’ll back down and not take a losing case to court. If they really do have a losing case, then it’s a loss if they take us to court, but also a loss if they give in and come down on their demands. If they lose either way, who’s to say they won’t pick the loss that brings me down too? Which is the other point. Bad press never goes away. Once you’re accused, it doesn’t matter who wins or loses. You’ve already lost your credibility in the eyes of future investors, not to mention current ones. And I don’t think you’re clairvoyant enough to know for sure that they’ll back down, or that I can weather the PR storm if we go to court.”

  “So you don’t trust me.”

  He faltered. “I want to. Yesterday I did, when you came with a good game plan. But we didn’t talk about just walking out on them like this. You have to see how much is at stake.”

  “I do see how much is at stake. Look at it this way. Imagine how you would feel if you were in their position. Just imagine it for a second. You’re unhappy about the space port, and you see it causing a loss in the value of your assets. Legally, there’s nothing you can do. You don’t have a case. But what if you could intimidate the big cheese into backing down on the things you don’t like? Maybe you find a way to do that if you don’t have a case. If you’re smart, you put him in a losing position—either he backs down and gives you what you want, or he goes to court and ultimately loses anyway through bad press and loss of investors. You frame the entire choice that way—as a choice between losing options. And then you wait him out. Eventually, he’s going to choose to lose on his own terms. Which means choosing exactly how much to give up. Which means choosing not to go to court.”

  He was silent, biting his thumbnail as he mulled it over. “Go on.”

  “So, again, imagine you’re them. What do you do when the big boss chooses to take the unpredictable path of losing whatever the gods of PR and investment hand him, instead of choosing to give up his dream? You’re not prepared for that, because going in, you knew the man too well. You knew, somehow, I don’t know how, that he wouldn’t take an unpredictable risk. So what do you do? If you’re them, you have two choices: go to court and lose, or negotiate. You still want to come out on top in some way, so instead of fighting a losing court battle, you give a little. You bring down your price, but only marginally, only enough to show you’re willing to negotiate. And then you heckle for all you’re worth, and hope the settlement outweighs whatever you were expecting to lose in the first place. In the end, you still come out on top.”

  “And where does that leave me, Victor Sterling?”

  “It leaves you a winner, too. Because instead of giving them what they want and compromising your vision, or getting taken to court and losing credibility, you instead still settle out of court and force them to negotiate, which is what you wanted in the first place. Your mistake, from the beginning, from before they even threatened to file suit, was showing weakness. Maybe it was your first lawyer, or maybe it was the fact that you fired him, but somehow you showed them you’re at the mercy of your investors, and of the public perception. What you should have done, from the beginning, was rejected their entire premise that going to court would be a bad thing for you. And that, to answer your original question, is exactly what the fuck I just did in there. But you’re the client, so take it or leave it. The question is, are you as weak as they think you are?”

  He was angry now. “No. I believe in my vision, and I believe in myself. I didn’t get where I am today by backing down.”

  “Exactly. The problem is, you’re now afraid of losing everything you worked so hard for. And that, whether you like it or not, comes across as weakness. You’ve already shown them that you don’t trust me by the way you hurried out to have this very conversation. And that means they’ll wait. They’ll try to sit it out until your lack of faith in your lawyers causes you to fire me and hire someone new. They’ve seen that happen twice already, and they have no reason to expect you to act any differently this time. What they won’t see coming is that this time, you’re going to trust your lawyer and turn the tables on them. You’re going to be the one giving them two losing choices, and resting on your laurels while you wait for them to crack. You could have won this a month ago if you had trusted your counsel then. So today, you’re going to trust me.”

  He put his hands in his pockets and paced around. “They’re waiting in there. What do I say to them?”

  “Nothing. You act like the reason you jumped up to follow me was unrelated. You send Andrea in there with refreshments and have her tell them you’ll see them in court.” He was rubbing his hands together nervously again, so I took hold of one of them. I continued, “And then they’ll realize they’ve royally screwed up, because this time you hired a lawyer who knows how to convince you to trust her.”

  His hand softened, and he held my hands back. “OK. I’ll try it. But I am not letting this go to court. I’m not.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You won’t have to.”

  “Then I guess the meeting’s over.”

  I touched his shoulder. “And thank god for that.”

  He laughed. “How do you go from so severe to so warm?”

  “Practice,” I said. I almost came out and reassured him that the severe part of me was an act, and the warm part was genuine, but I had a second where I wondered if maybe my own mask had at some point become real, and I was both a severe and warm person. I kind of liked the idea.

  We wandered down the hall, leaving the opposing lawyers in the sphere. Victor pulled out his phone and called Andrea. “Offer them refreshments and thank them for coming,” he told her. “Let them know they can leave whenever they’re ready.” He hung up the phone.

  We wandered past the piano.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “I think I wouldn’t have been much fun, anyway. I was too stressed.”

  “You don’t need another reason. The one you had was fine.”

  “You’re right, you know. They’re wearing me down.”

  I threaded my hand through the crook of his elbow. “Well, I’m glad you trust me enough to tell me now.” Flirting. Again. In direct opposition to the conversation we were having. I needed to make up my mind about this man one of these days.

  He smiled, but it was strained. “We’ll see.”

  “Still feeling stressed?”

  “You really need to ask? I thought this whole thing was going to be finished today. Now it’s just going to keep on dragging.”

  We stopped in front of a wall of window. The green, fronded tops of palm trees rocked in the breeze at floor level, and beyond them, pale sands shone in the sun and the blue waters slipped up and down the lip of the beach.

  I felt the tension in his forearm and said, “When was the last time you visited one of the numerous spas on this island?”

  “Two days ago. A masseuse comes to the private spa in the basement twice a week.”
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  “And what about the last time you actually walked down to the beach and played in the ocean?”

  He shrugged. “All the days blend together.”

  “Well I, for one, plan on enjoying the island before I go. So once those stuffed shirts and the creepy contract lawyer have cleared out, I’m going to put on a swimsuit and put all this legalese out of my head. Would you like to join me?”

  He stared out at the ocean. “We need to forget about last night,” he said. “But I’d like that.”

  “Today’s a new day,” I agreed, even though I wanted to give his backside a soft slap. I controlled myself. “Glad you’re coming, though. There’s no point in living on a tropical island if you don’t enjoy it.” And with that, I sauntered back to my room, somehow back to square one on the surface, but underneath I was ready to give him another chance.

  Four

  Whenever I’m feeling self-conscious about my body, I do my best to slip back into severe mode. When I try on swimsuits and look at myself in a full-length mirror, noticing only the slight unevenness of my tan, the small scar on my torso from when I had to have a mole removed, the ever-so-slight difference in the size of my average breasts, and the odd places on my thighs where the first tiny wrinkles of age hint at their arrival in droves over the next decade, I remind myself that even though I am not a six-foot-four bone-thin model, I do maintain my body, and on the whole, it looks damn good. I run three times a week, and it keeps me mostly thin. I take good care of my health. I like my face. There are so many things about my body that I am happy with, and on that day I was not going to let my feelings about a man, even as gorgeous and handsome a specimen as Victor, force me to laser-focus in on my imperfections. If I could walk into a room as a lawyer and be in control, feeling total confidence in myself, then I could walk onto a beach as a woman and feel at home in my body, see it as me, see it as every bit as good as I want it to be.

  I chose a two-piece string bikini in a deep green that brought out my eyes, and put back my hair. The full wardrobe really did complete the effect of being able to leave my regular life behind and be whoever I wanted to be while on the island. Maybe that was what the billionaires really came here for. Not so much the views and the food and the decadence as much as the freedom those things afforded, the ability to be really themselves. I thought of my years with Nick, of his genuineness, how he had found a way to be himself without needing to be a billionaire, and how free it made him feel, how passionate. I wondered if Victor had some deep dream beyond this space port, if once it was built, he would move on to the next thing, or if maybe all he wanted in life was to fulfill a boyhood dream of being an astronaut, of playing in space, without the stress and encumbrances of some scientific mission.

  I slung a tote of towels and accoutrements over my shoulder, put on a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses from the wardrobe, and walked down the curving stone steps to the sand. I walked between palm trunks and out into the sun, the wind off the ocean soft and cool, the temperature impeccable. The envy of kings, I kept hearing in my head. I laid my tote and sunglasses down on the sand and walked to the bright blue water, clear as glass at the edge of the sand, and I waded in.

  A delightful warmness crept up my legs, between them, up my stomach and ribs and back, and I reveled in the incredible freedom of feeling like this was mine. The sea was nearly silent, the sky clear, and I could have been alone on the island, alone on the Earth, with a room behind me offering all I could ever need. It felt sublimely relaxing. I tipped onto my back and floated in the ocean, the small waves passing under me, lifting and lowering me. The only thing that could make the moment more perfect would be a strong, soft hand in mine, a hard-armed man floating beside me.

  Victor, too, was no underwear model; he didn’t have perfectly chiseled outlines of every muscle group, but when you spend enough time running and at the gym, you start to recognize men’s body types in more detail, and I liked his. He walked down the beach tall and thin but tightly toned, and the sight of him shirtless in his swimming briefs made the delightful wetness and warmth of the water almost painfully arousing, my nipples perking up and my pelvis full of heartbeat.

  He hadn’t bothered to bring a tote, just his fit body and a relaxed smile. I dropped my feet down to the sand and stood waist deep in the water, waiting for him to come out to me. His legs were so long that when he reached me, his swimsuit was still above water, and I got a good idea of what he was packing. Goddamn, had it been this long since I was nearly naked with a man?

  “You look good,” he said, eyeing my body and flashing those perfect teeth. He passed me and went into the deeper water. “I’m gonna swim for a minute,” he said. And then he dove under, his long back shining and shoulders flexing as he pulled himself out to sea. I followed slowly, treading water when it got deep, loosening my arms and legs, sinking in the wonderful wet heat up to my shoulders.

  After he had swum out far enough that I could only see his head between blue waves, he turned around and came back, big hands splashing, until he passed me once again, and stood where the water came to his navel. He was so adept in it he could have been a sea lion. His tan skin glistened and he rubbed the water from his lightly-bearded chin and lips, and I wanted him, badly I wanted him.

  I came over to him, trying not to rush things, and said, “Felt good?”

  “It’s great,” he said. “When I’m swimming, it clears my head. All I can think of is the next stroke.”

  “Running is like that for me,” I said.

  “You have good abs,” he said, flicking those pale blue eyes at me once. “You do sit-ups?”

  “Only when I’m feeling especially motivated,” I said. “But I do like feeling strong.”

  “You are strong,” he said. “I can tell just by looking. You look like a boxer. In a good way.”

  “And you look like a swimmer,” I said. “In a really good way.”

  He couldn’t help grinning, but his eyes kept roaming the horizon, like he was waiting for something.

  “You look like you’re still distracted,” I said. “Need to swim another lap?”

  “Maybe two or three,” he said. “Been a big day.”

  “I’ll race you,” I said.

  “What does the winner get?”

  “Winner gets to kiss the loser. Any place they want.”

  He looked a little nervous. “You mean that?”

  “Just a kiss.”

  “We said that was a bad idea.”

  I gave the side of his wet hip a small, firm squeeze. “Maybe this idea turned over a new leaf.”

  He smiled skeptically. “Are you really sure about this?”

  “I plan to win.”

  “Oh really?” The competition ignited in his eyes. “We’ll see.”

  “On three?”

  He smiled like a schoolboy. “One. Wait for it—three.”

  We dove headfirst, and he was strong, powerful, but I was smaller and narrower, and the water resisted me less. I turned at the place it seemed he had turned at before, and passed him immediately. He was close behind me, his hands slapping the water near my shoulders, and when we beached like two seals, we were neck and neck. We lay panting on the soaked sand, the water covering our legs and splashing between us.

  “What do you think?” he said between heaves. “Tie?”

  “I’d let that be a tie,” I said.

  “Who kisses first?”

  “Me.” I reached over and ran my hand up his side. His hot skin slick from the water slid smooth under my hand, and his ribs rose and fell with each of his breaths. I looked at his pectorals, the brown nipples bordering a swath of small hairs that swam down his chest, converging like a school of minnows. He put his hand on my hip as I slid mine around to his back, and I leaned forward and kissed a soft hairless spot below his nipple, taking my time, sucking his skin softly, and then leaning back, enjoying his relaxed face, and feeling my skin tingle as I wondered where he would choose.

  He looked into m
y eyes, and hesitated. I tried to quell the cascade of negative anticipation that he would back down, all the “not agains” and “not this times” that avalanched through my head, and I maintained my smile.

  “I’m game,” I said. “Go for it.”

  Gingerly, his hand on my hip sliding up to my waist, he leaned forward and planted his lips on my collarbone. His mouth gave it a soft massage, and I leaned my head back and by putting my hand on his nape held his head where it was.

  “Don’t stop,” I said.

  He didn’t. He moved his lips up to my neck, exactly as I hoped he would, and hit what Nick used to call my magic spot, a place right behind my earlobe that makes me moan every time. We ran our hands over each other’s skin as the waves licked our feet and calves, and I savored every second, my body already warm and loosened from the sea, and I kissed him back: his strong neck and shoulders, his four-day beard, his firm chest. My hands couldn’t get enough of his back muscles, his shoulder blades, his narrow waist. I tugged on his ear just a bit with my teeth, letting him know a little roughness was okay. He responded in kind, at first gently nibbling my neck and shoulders, then biting a little harder, which was precisely what I wanted.

  “Do that,” I said. He did, and I let the tingling fill my whole side and back and leg, until I was so excited I had to jump on him, holding his shoulders down on the sand, his abs between my legs. “Now,” I said, “tell me what you want.”

  He looked up at me, pleasantly surprised at my feistiness, and suddenly he was all in, grinning big and bringing his big hands up my back, down to my backside, squeezing, then stroking me with his wide palms full flat up to my bikini top. I thought he was about to pull the string and undo the bow, but instead he pulled my body down to his, so that my breasts pressed against his nipples. He slid his hands outward to my ribs and moved me up and down, and I smiled and had fun with it, feeling his nipples rub mine through the swimsuit, stimulating us both until we moaned together.