Game of Love (28 page)

“This change will place M&T in a bad predicament with this client,” Roger said as he wiped his brow. “Let’s get the initial discussion taken care of this week. Take next week off and then we can regroup the week after. What do you say, son?” Roger showed his unnaturally white teeth.

“As reasonable as that sounds, it is impossibly unreasonable. My flight leaves in a few hours.”

Roger’s face froze. Andre would wait it out. The best negotiation tactic was complete silence.

“We need this client. And with Sunrise coming, we will not be able to address their needs for three, four, maybe five months. We may even lose the client, but I will call them and explain.” He squeezed Andre’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Andre said as he rose, then walked to the door.

“Andre,” Roger said.

Andre turned, facing Roger.

“I hope whatever you’re doing is worth it. I don’t have to remind you that you have an obligation to this company. A contractual obligation.”

“I’m taking a vacation, not quitting.”

Roger chuckled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t do that. You have a good thing here, and we do too, admittedly. All I’m saying is, stay focused. Don’t get distracted. Particularly now, weeks before a critical project. It’s in all of our best interest.”

“God will not look you over for a medal, degrees or diplomas, but for scars.”
~Elbert Hubbard

assengers flying upper class on Virgin Atlantic quickly forgot they were in a tin box flying over the Atlantic, lugging 20,000 gallons of fuel. Everything was designed with comfort and luxury in mind. But Andre was restless and spent the first five hours at the bar. He expected to arrive in London by early evening. He should have taken a nap, but too much was on his mind.

Roger’s reaction bothered him. He had expected a bit of hesitation, but Roger came out swinging, confirming Andre’s suspicions. M&T would play hardball now that Andre had shown lack of commitment to his career. He’d seen it with other consultants. They were placed on back-to-back flights, assigned to impossible projects, pushed to the limit until the consultant quit or failed, breaching the contract. Was that why Roger had insisted on a trip to D.C. even though Andre had a planned vacation? Had Roger already been suspicious? If so, these tactics were too little too late. Six months was nothing. Of course, they could fire him if they showed cause, in which case Andre would forfeit his bonus. But Andre was too smart to do something stupid.

A car service greeted Andre at the airport. As he entered the car he scanned around, capturing and etching all the faces around him. He committed crowds to memory, particularly when traveling. Last time he’d been in London, things had gotten a bit dicey. His work on tracking terrorist cells had earned him a tail. With the help of the Metropolitan Police Service, better known as New Scotland Yard, all had ended well, but he was advised to be cautious. That had been six months ago. But the unsettling feeling of being stalked had not left him.

A light drizzle gave the world a fresh and clean look–a new beginning–and the ever-present London traffic confirmed some things would never change. Double-decker buses, most half-full, filled the streets. Bicycles raced through the tight paths, snaking between cars, through traffic, cutting off buses, and endangering pedestrians. Thousands walked, going somewhere, getting nowhere.

Nothing had changed.

When he checked in at the Kensington Hilton, he found a sealed envelope in his suite.

Andre,

If you’re up to it, text me and we can meet.

Cheers,

Gem

He grabbed his cell phone and wrote, “
Give me thirty to shower and change. Send me your coordinates. I’ll meet you wherever.
”

After the shower, he read the new message:

“
Wrapping up interviews. I’ll send my car to get you.
”

Andre stepped off the elevator and approached the front desk. He automatically ingested the scene in the hotel lobby. He did a double take on a man who whirled and walked away. Andre tried to see the man’s face, but an older man in a suit walked up to him.

“Mr. Reyes?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“I am Glen Aldridge. Miss Lennon asked me to collect you. Are you ready, sir?”

Andre glanced once again, but the man was gone.
Coffee shop, Malibu, now here. I’m officially losing it
, he thought.

They went to the mecca of tennis and entered the All England Lawn Tennis Club through the special access entrance. When they parked, Andre grabbed the door handle, ready to step out.

“Sir,” Glen said, “Miss Lennon asked us to wait for her in the car. They will join us momentarily.”

“They?”

“Yes, Miss Lennon and her assistant, Miss Nigist.”

Too bad. He would have preferred some alone time. Andre considered the light drizzle for an instant before he opened the door. “I’ll be outside.”

“Sir, shall I get you an umbrella?”

“No, thanks.” He stepped out.

He faced the sky, welcoming the mist. He took a deep breath and exhaled, arms hanging at his sides. Fresh air always released the tension. Tension meant headaches.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He opened his eyes and saw Gemma walking toward him, Tish next to her.

“I’m enjoying the fresh air.”

“It’s raining.” Her smile brightened her eyes.

He opened his arms wide. She hesitantly stepped into his embrace, which covered her completely. Her body language communicated the unstated:
be careful when we’re in public
.

“It’s great to see you,” he whispered. His heartbeat picked up, playing a rhythm he had been looking forward to.

She pulled back a little and gazed up at him. “Thank you for coming. Now get in before you get pneumonia.”

“Hello, Mr. Andre,” Tish said, squinting through the light drizzle, “I hope the details of your trip were handled to your satisfaction?”

“Thanks for arranging everything. It’s been perfect.”

“Come on you two,” Gemma said.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the world famous Gemma Lennon.” A voice with a Germanic accent came from behind them.

They all spun. A tall man in his mid-to-late twenties stood with arms crossed, his sweat pants and jacket practically spray-painted on his hard body. He smiled, but his eyes betrayed him. He was not a friend.

“Oh no,” Tish whispered. “Georg.”

The guy took a step toward Gemma; Andre immediately moved to intercept.

“Aren’t you going to say hello?” Georg asked.

“No,” Gemma said, her voice steady, but tension strained the corners of her eyes.

Andre stepped between them. He and Georg were the same height. “Do you know him?” Andre asked, his eyes trained on the man.

“Of course she knows me, pal. We go way back.” He smirked. Two feet separated them.

Andre studied Georg, awaiting any movement he perceived as threatening. Instead, Georg’s eyes widened. At that instant, Andre sensed motion from his left side.

Gemma delivered an unforgiving uppercut directly to Georg’s chin. The animal strength behind the punch lifted Georg off his feet. He stumbled back, then slipped on the wet floor and fell.

Andre first grinned with absolute excitement. Then he stepped in front of Gemma, stopping her from going after Georg for more. She struggled behind Andre’s extended arms, while he tried to keep an eye on Georg.

“You bitch!” Georg yelled.

“Gemma, get over here,” Tish demanded as she and Glen grabbed Gemma’s flailing arms and pulled her toward the car.

Andre moved toward Georg, who spat blood, then charged forward.

In one motion, Andre crouched and struck Georg’s solar plexus with an open palm. The wind whooshed from Georg’s lungs. Andre grabbed Georg’s hand and spun him around. Now behind Georg, he locked his arm at an impossible angle and squeezed the man’s neck. Georg’s knees buckled. He dropped to the floor.

Georg knelt on the floor, his head bowing down to Gemma.

Andre stooped and spoke in Georg’s ear. “Keep your distance. Next time, you’ll eat cement.”

Georg remained on the wet floor, unmoving.

Andre stepped up to Gemma, who pulled her arms free of Glen and Tish.

“You okay?”

Venomous anger poured from her bloodshot eyes. Her breathing labored. She nodded.

“Nice upper cut.”

“I kicked his ass, didn’t I?” A tear slid down her cheek.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Andre said, holding her tight as they walked back to the car.

Tish was not smiling. “I hope no one got this on film. Wesley will croak over this one.”

Glen opened her door. “Can I get you anything, ma’am?” He seemed shaken up.

“Ice,” Andre said as he studied her reddening knuckles. “She’ll need ice for her hand.”

Within seconds Glen prepared an ice pack, then they drove off.

Gemma shifted toward Andre and grabbed his hand. “Did you break him?”

“No, just made him wet his pants.”

“Good,” she said. A small shiver shook her. “I don’t know what it was you did, but that was some serious crap.”

“Who was that guy?” he asked.

“An asshole,” she said.

“Anything you want to tell me?”

“No, not now.” Gemma dropped her eyes, adjusting the ice pack on her knuckles.

“Let me look at that,” he said and took her hand, lightly touching the swollen areas. “You’ll survive, but I’d recommend a cooler head. Does she always get into fights?” he asked Tish.

“No, absolutely not. I don’t know what the hell came over her.” She spun to Gemma, glaring. “Do you know the media mess this could cause? The press will have a field day. You don’t need this, G.”

“No one saw anything,” Gemma said.

“She’s right, Gem. You don’t need this.”

Gemma rolled her eyes.

Glen opened the privacy window. “Where to, ma’am?”

“I’m famished,” she said, turning to Andre. “Do you want to eat?”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Sure, why not.”

“Take us to Maurice’s,” she said.

“Again?” Tish said.

“Bad food?” Andre asked.

“It’s best we pretend Tish isn’t here. Maurice has the best pizza in London. More importantly, he lets me in from the back entrance and has a private room.”