Game of Love (33 page)

“Have you tried to find him?”

“I’ve tried. I placed adverts, hired PIs, even went on TV, anything I could think of. Eventually, we found a couple who knew my mother. Through them I was able to track her parents. By then, only my grandfather survived. Unfortunately, I have nothing on my father. Only a name and one picture. An old-school selfie with my mum. A portion of his face is cut off. He had longish black hair and wore sunglasses. So all I know of him is his smile. They looked happy. Complete.” For a moment she thought of her reflection with Andre in the fountain.

“Have you kept in touch with the couple who knew your parents?”

“Yes. In fact, Xavi and Mari live in my Malibu home.”

“The guy who gave me the evil eye?”

“Exactly. We grew very close. They’d tell me stories about my mum. Stories I would not have known otherwise. They told me in the eighth month of her pregnancy, she used to rub her belly and call me her black bird.”

“Your tattoo.”

She nodded. “The best bit is that Xavi’s been like a father to me and also quite the guru. Few people know this, but after the Australian Open, I had decided to quit tennis. For weeks I sulked in LA, but one day he explained being sad changes nothing. He told me life was about choices and action.”

“Choices and action,” Andre repeated in a soft whisper.

“He told me to choose the future I wanted and then be in action. So I did.”

“Do Xavi and Mari know what happened to your father?”

She sighed. “They barely knew him, but Mari tells me weeks after Ginger’s death, Javier returned, trying to find me, but the hospital and adoption agency refused to provide him the information. For all I know, he may still be trying to find me.”

“How do you feel about him?”

“I’d do anything to find him. Before I knew his story, I resented both my parents. I assumed the worst. But the situation, the way things unfolded… I could see how a young man would make that decision.”

“You must show me the picture. I need to see their faces. The curiosity is killing me.”

“Next time we’re in LA. It’s in my Malibu home.”

Suddenly, the innocent drizzle converted into a torrential storm, and rain drops the size of nickels pelted them. They ran for shelter. Visibility approached zero. Their shoes, coats, and hair were drenched. When she thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

They slid under a bookseller’s canopy.

“That’s some rain.” Andre shook his hair, spraying water everywhere. “I told you we’d need an umbrella.”

“Your attempt at humor is tempting me to hurt you. For your sake, I’ll call Glen instead.” She dialed, but the connection dropped.

“Look over there. Three blocks west–my hotel. Let’s make a run for it. We’ll dry up while Glen comes to your rescue.”

“Right, good plan.” She dialed one more time. “Glen, if you can hear me, we’re heading to the Kensington Hilton.” She glanced at her phone and disconnected in exasperation.

Andre grabbed her hand, and they ran. The impact of their feet on the overflowed streets kicked up more water. They were drenched and getting cold, but she giggled like a schoolgirl.

They crossed the street toward the main lobby. The porter opened the door, concern carved on his face. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

They were still laughing. “No, thank you. All’s under control,” he said.

A handful of guests and hotel staff spun and gaped at the couple. Then directly at Gemma.

“When you have the opportunity, you strike.”
~Rod Lever

emma and Andre stepped off the lift and found their way to his suite. “Try Glen now,” he said as he opened the door and stepped in. Gemma moved slowly, observing his movements.

He threw the card key on the table, then removed his wet jacket and marched through the spacious suite.

He was always in action; never a wasted moment.

“I’ll get you towels. I bet my sweatpants and shirt could fit you.” He found articles of clothing and took them to the large bathroom.

No matter what he was up to he was always the same person–no different personas. He was the same guy on the beach as when he spoke to the British aristocracy.

“We should call for tea and soup.” He added towels to the clothing then walked toward her with an oversized towel.

Choices and action.

“Your hair is drenched,” he said, as he placed the towel on her head. She said nothing while he towel dried her hair. “We’ll need a blow dryer. This won’t do.” His eyes dropped to hers. “Do you know if Glen got your message? Did you try him again?”

She shook her head, not losing eye contact.

“Are you okay?” He stopped drying her hair.

She stepped into him, placed her hands behind his neck, and lowered his head. As their lips came together, electricity ran through her spine. A humming sensation washed through her legs. When he grabbed her hips, her body arched and pressed into his. Their breathing shortened, and their lips parted in acceptance. Their wet bodies came together, attached, molded to each other’s contours.

The rain pelted the windows as she reached for his belt.

Then a repeated sound.
Thud. Thud.

Her eyes opened. So did his.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Ma’am, it’s Glen.” A voice from outside.

Her eyes widened. They stopped, out of breath. Her body wavered.

“I was in the lobby when you arrived. I received your earlier calls. I wouldn’t have disturbed, but it seems people in the lobby saw you.”

Gemma blinked. “One moment,” she said. She leaned in close to Andre’s mouth. “I’m sorry. I have to leave,” she whispered.

“No,” he said, “stay with me.”

“I can’t.” She pulled away. “That was careless of me. The hotel staff and guests saw me. They’ll need to see me leave.”

“You’re not serious.”

She took the towel off the floor, threw it on her head and stepped backward to the door.

“I’m sorry,” she said, opened the door, then left.

He took a shower, then changed, intent on finding a solution to these games. How long did she plan to keep their relationship a secret? Until a couple of weeks ago, Andre had been focused on achieving financial independence. Now he understood independence without the right person to share life with would be incomplete, a sham. Did she feel the same?

This cycle had to stop. Maybe the cell phone virus would help. He powered up his laptop then monitored the status of the web service. Forty-five percent penetration by his virus and patterns were already emerging.

The headache knocked on his skull. He closed his laptop and decided to go downstairs for a late dinner before the kitchen closed.

As he stepped out of his room, he saw his stalker from a few days earlier. The stalker came to an abrupt halt, eyes wide. Andre strolled toward the man, pretending he didn’t recognize him, but the stalker spun and sprinted down the hall.

“Stop!” Andre yelled, then broke into a sprint.

The stalker had thirty yards on him and was a few feet from the elevator. Andre’s adrenaline catapulted him forward. The elevator door opened. The stalker slid in. Only fifteen yards to go and the door began to close. Andre saw the stalker’s face in perfect detail. He jumped toward the closing door, but was too late. He slammed a fist against the closed doors.

He spun, searching for the stairwell. For fourteen flights he ran, leaping from landing to landing. Sweat dripped from his face.

When he reached the first floor, he slammed the door open and stumbled into the lobby. He spun around, looking. Nothing. He sprinted to the porter. “Did you just see a twenty-five-year-old male, five-foot-seven, black curly hair, red rain jacket?”

“He just ran out. Nearly shattered the door. Turned west onto Kensington.”

Andre ran into the unforgiving rain. With no visibility, all colors faded. He could not make out anyone in red. He turned back.

“Have you seen him before?” he asked the porter.

“I’m not sure, sir.”

“Do you have security cameras on the fourteenth floor?”

“Yes, we do.”

“Please make sure all security footage is saved. I’m calling Detective Chief Inspector Whitby. We will need those tapes.”

After one hour with the DCI, Andre returned to his room. They had enough to launch an investigation, but why was he being tailed? Was the stalker related to past work, as he had suspected, or was this about Project Sunrise? Had his involvement been compromised?
My contract.

The DCI was concerned for Andre’s safety. Andre didn’t share the concern, confident that Whitby would find something. He was one of the best.

Andre studied his cell phone, a message from Gemma. He listened to the voicemail. “
Sorry. I hope you’re not mad. Please call me
.”

He wasn’t mad. He was confused. Did she really have to leave? Would the hotel staff say something to the press? And so what if it leaked? He was new to this domain. So he would have to follow her lead, for now.

He grabbed a beer from the minibar and collapsed on the couch. He needed to settle before returning her call. He turned on the TV and flipped the channels. The volume was low, but the picture stopped him cold. He sat up and increased the volume.