Game of Love (40 page)

She won her first match.

But she was rusty, committing too many unforced errors in the first set. She even dropped one of her serves, allowing the first set to go to tiebreaker. She eventually won the set, and when the second set started she didn’t look back, winning 6-0, not conceding even a single game to her unseeded opponent.

She walked off, waved at her boisterous fans, and smiled for the camera, but once in the locker room she was ready to spit venom. She removed the strap around her thigh and slung it across the room. Maybe she played poorly because of her strained hamstring. She doubted it. The cause was Andre.

He should have been here at the match, not in Rome.

An hour later, after she finished her last interview, her mobile rang. It was Andre. She ran into an empty room.

“You were awesome!”

“Thank you,” she said, not fully agreeing with his assessment.

“I sat at the head of the table with the phone on my lap, stealing glances, but I couldn’t take it anymore. Near the end of the first set, when it went to tiebreaker, I excused myself and went to the restroom to watch the match in the stall. Each time I wanted to cheer, I’d flush the toilet.”

She laughed. This time she would cut him a little slack. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. She missed him. She loved him.

On Tuesday, after practice and interviews, she went home and changed. Andre had invited her to his suite for dinner. He had promised something special.

She wondered what he had planned. Whatever it was, she looked forward to spending a few hours with him. She couldn’t spend the night there; she had a match the next afternoon. But she could afford a few hours of down time.

With the help of the hotel’s general manager, she once again entered from the private access. Andre walked her to the sofa and planted her in front of the coffee table. She studied the variety of knickknacks, trying to understand.

“Fresh baguettes from a bakery in Notting Hill,” he said as he exposed the basket of fresh loafs. “The Serrano ham and wine are from my grandfather’s estate in Spain. The cheese I brought from Rome last night. And the movie on the laptop is one of my all-time favorites:
The Big Picture
, with Kevin Bacon.”

She breathed in the scents. Her tired shoulders relaxed. She kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up beneath her. Bread, cheese, wine, and a movie in the company of a loved one was the epitome of romance.

She cuddled next to him. “What’s the movie about?”

“It’s about a young director who allows conceit to nearly ruin everything that matters. He thinks that in order to make it, he needs to be someone else. He puts at risk his passion, his friends, and his love—not to mention his identity. What do you think?”

“Stop talking, get me half a glass of wine, and press play.”

Some time later, the bottle was empty, the food was gone, the movie credits rolled and her head was on his chest. She listened to his breathing and heartbeat.

“I’m sorry about the last few days,” he said.

She sat up and pulled him by his arms.

“I’d like to try something new with you,” she said as she unbuttoned his shirt.

He hesitated. “And what’s that?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

She undid the last button and exposed his chest. She leaned into his neck and whispered, “It’s called make-up sex,” then nibbled on his ear.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve never”–he took a breath–“heard of this game.”

“In order to be forgiven,” she said as she laid soft pecks on his chest, “you need to bend to all my demands.” She stopped kissing then studied his eyes. “What do you think?”

His eyes were foggy. “I love this game.”

Gemma’s second round match on Wednesday was a blood bath.

She was brilliant. One ace after another, one broken serve after another. Her opponent won only two games. The match ended 6-1, 6-1. Gemma didn’t break a sweat.

At the end of the match when she waved at her fans, she turned to her reserved seats and waved at Andre, who stood and whistled.

My lucky charm
, she thought, as she marched off the court, convinced that with him, she was unstoppable.

On Thursday morning, Gemma was ready to cry.

Tucked inside her newspaper was an unmarked envelope. Hidden inside was a picture of Andre and her, kissing in Hayden Park. Not a perfect picture. But the picture was irrelevant.

IF YOU LIKE IT, I HAVE MORE. I KNOW YOUR LITTLE SECRET TOO. £1 MILLION TO KEEP IT SAFE. SO HARD TO TRUST PEOPLE, BUT YOU CAN TRUST ME, GEM.

What little secret? Georg? Her fingers trembled as she dialed Wesley. Afterwards, she called Andre.

Within twenty minutes, Andre and Detective Chief Inspector Whitby were in Gemma’s home. As were Wesley and Bedric. Gemma’s staff and security team explained the newspaper was dropped off as always. They had not noticed anything out of the ordinary. The surveillance tapes did not show any tampering after the paper had been delivered by the service.

The DCI interviewed Gemma, Bedric, and Wesley. Tish was a no-show. Whitby was a heavyset man, barrel chested, with a perpetually wet upper lip. His dark eyes didn’t miss a thing, reminding her of the black, soulless eyes of a great white shark.

No, there had been no previous actions of this sort. Yes, she received crazy fan mail regularly. No, although she had been sued frivolously in the past, never had she been blackmailed. No, she had no idea who would be behind this.

“Ma’am, the extortionist refers to a ‘little secret.’ Anything you’re able to share?” the DCI asked.

“No,” both Gemma and Wesley said at the same time. She glared at Wesley then faced the DCI, barely able to keep her emotions in check. “I want to pay this bastard off and be done with it.”

The DCI shifted in his seat. “Ma’am, if I may. You’re world famous. Any real secret from your life would be worth considerably more than £1 million. My guess is the pictures alone would bring in a small fortune.”

She held her breath, considering the implications. “So what are you saying?”

“There’s more to this than a simple blackmail. It’s either the first of many, or there’s a larger agenda at play.”

“Hold on a minute, Mr. DCI,” Wesley said as he shifted forward. “What are you driving at? This seems fairly straightforward. Someone with access to private information is ready to make some quick cash. You need to look into who could have access to sensitive information.”

The DCI grinned. Decades of nicotine had marred his teeth. “The Met always appreciates expert advice. My ears are wide open.”

They stared at each other.

“What if–” Wesley started.

“Wesley, please,” she interrupted.

Wesley grunted. Bedric crossed his legs, not a trace of emotion on his face.

“I’m willing to take your advice and follow your lead, but I can’t have my life and career ruined. I need this handled.”

“I will place the best on this case,” he said, then exchanged glances with Andre. When Andre and Whitby arrived together, she had been confused. Now it was clear they knew each other.

When the interview was over and the evidence collected, she asked Andre to join her in the kitchen to speak privately.

“I am very worried about this,” she said. “What little secret? Could it be about Georg?”

“I don’t know.”

“No one in my family knows. Not my mum, not my grandfather, Xavi, or Mari. This would devastate them. I can’t let this happen to them.”

“I won’t let that happen. I’ll help Whitby and his team crack this one.”

She studied him. “Who would do this to me? Why?”

“I don’t know yet, but I will–”

“And then the note refers to me as ‘Gem.’ You’re the only one who calls me Gem.”

He cocked his head.

“No, I don’t think you’re behind this. But I don’t know what to think either, Andre. The blackmailer is making a direct connection to you. And when I called you, you showed up with the DCI. What are you not telling me?”

He took a deep breath then nodded. “Someone has been following me since I arrived in London. This extortion letter may be from the same person. We’re not sure yet, but the DCI and I think it the most probable scenario.”

Heat bloomed. “But… why did you keep this from me?” Her voice trembled.

“I didn’t want to concern you. I didn’t believe my tail was in any way related to you.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would anyone follow you?” Her words came out in a harsh whisper.

“Calm down.”

“Maybe you need to be less calm,” she snapped. “Explain why someone would follow you?”

“Gem, this has happened to me in the past. I have provided services for governments and kingdoms. Those entities have enemies.”

“Enemies? Like terrorists and the like?”

“Yes, which is why I got Scotland Yard involved.”

She wanted to snap at him, even blame him, but what he had done was reasonable. As frustrated as she was, he had gotten all the right people involved. “But why wouldn’t you tell me this? If I had known, or even suspected, I would have stayed away from your hotel. You could have come here instead.”

“This has been my life for nearly seven years. From one classified project to another. I’ve already told you that immediately after Wimbledon I will be on another classified project. I just can’t expose you to that side of the world. And until I’m done with my contract, this is what I have to deal with.”

“And in the meanwhile, these bastards get to humiliate me and break the hearts of those closest to me?”

“Gem–”

“Please, don’t call me that. Not now. Not after that goddamn note.”

He studied her.

“You asked me to trust you,” she said. “Yet it’s our relationship that has brought this mess into my life. You should have warned me.”

“I thought I was shielding you from this stuff. I wanted you to focus on Wimbledon. I didn’t want to distract you.”

She slumped on the kitchen stool.

“I’ve been working with DCI Whitby since last Saturday. We’re close.”

She wasn’t angry with him. She was angry at herself for being so careless. She should’ve known better. This was exactly what she should have expected. Always the same story.

“Also…” He hesitated. “I’ll be gone for a few days.”

She turned to him. “Why?”

“Depending on our findings, I may have to return to the States.”

“Fantastic. I feel like seagulls are flying overhead and one after another is pelting me with their turd.” She placed her hands on her face, forcing back tears. “When will you be back?”

“Early next week.”

“Please,” she said then bore into his eyes, “whatever you have to do, do it. I need to shield my family from this story. All this happened because of us. Solve it.”