Game of Love (14 page)

They were to meet at the beach at 7:00 a.m. and other than the headache that greeted him, nothing would derail him.

His cell rang. It was his cousin. He grabbed the earpiece and answered the call.

“Linda, how are you,
chica
?”

“Good morning, sunshine. Welcome home,” she said.

“Good to be back. Are we still on?”

“Yeah, wanted to make sure you didn’t flake on us.”

“When have I flaked?”

“Let’s see, how about every planned vacation since you started with M&T.”

“Yeah, well, I’m coming. What should I bring?”

“Just your sunny disposition. By the way, Jeffrey called me.”

“He called me too. Let me guess, he’s worried?”

“Yup.”

“I hope you set him straight.”

“Yes. I told him we’re all worried about you.”

“Great. You know, he’s a fairly important guy and has his hands full with matters more significant than my well-being.”

“Somehow I think he’d argue that point.”

“I’m fine, just a bit worn out. But that’s what little breaks are for, refueling.”

“Speaking of fuel, get some carbs. I think Chris plans on putting us through the grinder on the rock he wants us to climb.”

“Does he ever relax?”

“In one word, no. And for the record, you should go to Emily’s engagement.”

“You too?”

“Go get ready. I’ll see you soon.”

“
Ciao
.” He ended the call.

If he could find a way to make it to the engagement, he would. He wished everyone would just accept his situation.

The phone rang in his ear again. He pressed the button on his earpiece. “You forgot something?”

“Sorry?”

“Linda?” he asked, unsure.

“No, it’s Gemma.”

“Gemma.” A smile rose. “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

“I can see that… a
Linda
no less. That means
pretty
in Spanish, doesn’t it? Is she another one of your many stalkers?”

“Sadly, no. Linda Reyes is my cousin.”

“Oh, okay. In that case she may call you this early.”

“Thank you, dear. Speaking of which, it’s barely past 5:30 in the morning. Is it customary for you to call at this hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep. You should thank me. I almost called you at 3:00 a.m.”

He moved to the living room sofa, sitting with elbows on knees, hands to his face. A man in prayer. “I’m glad you called.”

“You didn’t have a choice, love,” she said, her voice warm. “I’d like some coffee. What do you say?”

“Yes, absolutely. When, where?”

“Meet me downstairs, outside your building.”

“What do you mean? You’re here now?”

“Yes. Don’t take long.” She hung up.

How the hell had she found his home? In the bathroom, he checked his hair. His bed head was nearly presentable.

When the elevator opened, the doorman stepped out to get the lobby door. “Morning run?” the doorman asked.

“Not today.”

“Then the black Porsche must be here for you.”

Andre stepped outside. A heavily tinted Porsche idled in front of his building. The passenger window rolled down.

“Hop in,” Gemma said.

He leaned against the door and studied her. She wore a black FC Barcelona cap, her ponytail snaking through the opening. Sunglasses hung from her white tank-top. She wore short denim jeans, exposing her tanned kill-me-now legs. The scent of jasmine was mixed with something else–body lotion. For a moment he visualized Gemma applying lotion on those legs. That image would last a couple of decades.

“What are you waiting for? Get in before someone sees us.” She slid on her sunglasses.

“It’s not even six in the morning. Who’s going to see us? Let’s walk. There’s a nice cafe a couple of blocks from here.”

She peered over her sunglasses. “Walk? Are you mad? The bloody paparazzi will be on us in no time.” Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

Andre scanned the street, looking for patterns, anomalies. “I don’t see anyone. You’re safe. Come on, you can leave your car here. The doorman will keep an eye on it.”

She hesitated then murmured something as the passenger window rolled up. She stepped out, still murmuring.

“Come again?” he said

“You better be right,” she said, and marched southbound.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

She paused. “The coffee shop.”

“We’re headed that way,” he said, pointing north.

“I did some research before I came. There’s a coffee shop in that direction.”

He strode up to her. “Relax.”

Her jaw pulsated.

He held her shoulders and squeezed. “You don’t have to be in control of every detail. I’ve got your back.” After a few moments, her tense muscles relaxed.

“Fine. Let’s go please, before someone sees us.”

“Two things: you haven’t said hello yet.”

She frowned then gave him a hug. She was warm and smelled like an orchard. Her body was hard, electric. Like in the plane, he didn’t want to let go.

“Good morning,” she whispered, then stepped back. “And the second thing?”

“I never gave you my home address.”

She grinned. “All information is available if one wants it.”

“You
are
stalking me. This is awesome.”

“Don’t get too happy. My cook found your address,” she said, then spun and walked toward the cafe.

What kind of cook did she have? He noticed a tattoo of a black bird on her left shoulder blade. He caught up to her. She wore a poorly disguised smile on her face. “Don’t get too close in public,” she said.

“Right. Am I allowed to look at you? Should I refer to you in third person?”

She glanced at him. “You’re asking for it.”

“I am. And I’m ready when you are.”

Minutes later they were at the cafe. Gemma found a secluded corner table on the patio while Andre placed their order. He wore board shorts and a t-shirt, which accentuated his physique perfectly. Like a boxer, he had dense muscles and a wiry frame, barely any sign of fat.

He approached their table with coffee and pastry.

“Were you headed to the beach?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m meeting my friends in about an hour.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“It is. Haven’t seen them in weeks.”

She removed her sunglasses. “You look happy.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.”

She had woken up lonely and sad this morning. And in some ways, she had hoped he felt the same. They were the same after all… but he wasn’t sad at all.

“In fact,” he said, as he placed his hand on hers and squeezed, “with the exception of the first time we met, every time I see you, I feel that way. I’m glad you called.”

An uncontrollable smile crept over her lips. “I’m glad I called as well.”

His eyes suddenly widened with excitement. “Do you want to join us at the beach?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“Why not? They’re not weird. They’re cool and down to earth. We’re going to Point Dume in Malibu. You should come. You’d have a blast.”

“It’s not that easy.” How could she explain it to him? “I couldn’t.” And who knew what his friends would do when they saw her? Maybe snap a picture or two? Sell the story to the newspapers? She was just beginning to trust him, but she couldn’t jump in blind. She didn’t need another mess on her hands.

“What’s the worst that can happen? Someone takes pictures of you and posts them?”

“It’s not just the pictures. It’s the stories they write, the assumptions they make, the incriminations. Not interested in any of that.”

“Is it odd for celebrities to hang out with friends?”

Friends
.

She had to explain, or at least try. “Ever since Australia, I go out of my way to avoid the paparazzi. Lately the pictures they have of me are boring: I’m leaving a hotel, I’m entering a hotel, I’m attending a match, I’m leaving a match.”

“What if they took a picture of you at the beach, or at a coffee shop?”

“Who is Gemma dating? What is Gemma eating? Has she gained weight? She has lost too much weight. She’s more interested in partying. She needs to focus on winning a Grand Slam. She’s all hype. She’s a nothing.” Gemma nearly bent the spoon she was holding. She collected herself, then whispered, “It’s none of their fuckin’ business.” Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears.

“But aren’t you letting them win?”

She frowned, confused.

“You can’t go to the movies, or to a party, or to the beach. You can’t be you. You’ve allowed them to dictate your life.”

Her eyes narrowed, wanting to lecture him on how ugly, hurtful, and debilitating some of the things they wrote could be, but she didn’t. “That’s the price I must be willing to pay to do what I do.”

“I see.” Silence hung between them. Something shifted on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. Give me a sec.”

She watched him walk back into the coffee shop and say something to the kid behind the counter. The same kid she had noticed taking a picture of them on his cell phone moments earlier. Had Andre also seen that? She had elected to pretend he wasn’t there and not do anything that would be material for the rags.

She wished she could hear what he was saying. The kid’s tanned face lost color, and his mouth hung loose. Less than ten seconds later, Andre left the stunned-looking kid. Andre, on the other hand, looked very calm when he came back out.

“What happened?” Gemma asked.

“Just wanted to know what espresso beans they use. I’m a bit of a coffee snob.”

Interesting. Was he trying to shield her from the situation? “I saw what he was doing,” she said, and focused on his eyes. “Is that why you went in?”

“Maybe.”

She grinned. “What did you tell him?”

He shrugged. “Just that I have a lot of friends at the FBI and CIA. So if I saw pictures from this morning anywhere, I’d make sure my friends looked into his background.” He drank the rest of his coffee.

“Can you really do that?”

“I guess he’ll find out if he posts anything.”

“So whatever we do here, we’d be safe.”

“Theoretically.”

“Then I can do this…” she stretched her leg and dropped it right next to his thigh.

He glanced at her shoe then peered up, a smirk on his face. “I suppose you could.”

“When you’re born with long legs like mine, you need to stretch them regularly.” She rolled her toe, flexing the muscles, rubbing against his thigh.

His eyes did not leave her leg. “By all means, stretch on.” Andre cleared his throat then focused his attention on the pastry plate. He spun it, like a sculptor studying a slab of clay.

“Is this pastry appreciation day or are you planning on eating it?” she asked.

“No need to rush this,” he said. “The trick is to spread the Nutella on the inside of the croissant.” She studied him as he took the knife and first cut the croissant lengthwise, then with an artist’s touch distributed the hazelnut spread inside the pastry. “Some people put a dab on the outside. Amateurs. On the inside, you get balance and proportion.” He took a bite with his eyes closed. “Heavenly.”

A smile cracked her face. “That does look good.”

“No way, you didn’t want any. I asked. Didn’t I ask you? And you said ‘no, thank you,’ in your polite accent.”

“I have the right to change my mind… I am a woman.”

He placed his hand on her shin, sliding up toward her knee. His fingers curled around her calf and squeezed. “A badass one at that.”

She would have smiled, or said something, but she was focused on moderating her breathing. His hands were like fire on her skin. The muscles spasmed, her toes curled, and her heartbeat danced. That was exactly what she had wanted: his touch on her skin. She dropped her other foot on his other side.

“My other leg is getting jealous.”

He grinned.

This day had the potential to turn great.

Gemma didn’t notice the van until she saw Andre’s eyes darting around. The same van passed by a few minutes later, driving a tad slower. She took her feet down, just in case. Soon after, one man hovered near the street corner. Another man waited by another. Both wore sunglasses and appeared to be eyeing the cafe.

She hoped they weren’t paparazzi, but their behavior was suspicious. On the streets of Santa Monica only the usual suspects were out so early–runners, power walkers, bike riders, the homeless, the street cleaners, and of course, the runaways with their dogs. Not men in wrinkled clothing standing around.