The Bluffing Game
Authors: Verona Vale
The Bluffing Game
a novel
by Verona Vale
© Copyright 2016 by Verona Vale, all rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters are invented and are not intended to represent any existing people or places. Any resemblance to existing people is purely coincidental.
Interior design and formatting by James Dunham.
Cover image by Inkubus Design.
Despite
what a few people might imagine about lawyers, I don’t often fly by private jet to tropical resort paradises full of well-muscled millionaires shining with suntan oil. Today, however, the sun reflected off the blue Pacific through my window, and the flight attendant came over to my leather armchair and bolted-down coffee table to inform me we would soon land on Sueńos de Diamante, the one true getaway for the world’s elite.
At least, those of the elite who liked to share their private island by mingling and sleeping with each other.
The flight attendant, a tiny Bolivian woman in her late sixties, about twice my age, told me, “Mr. Sterling wants to know if you prefer a room with a sunrise or sunset view, or both. And whether you smoke.”
“I don’t smoke,” I said. “As for the room, what would you recommend?”
She refilled my coffee, her other hand on her chest as if to keep her buttoned-to-the-neck blouse from falling open. “I suppose that depends on your sleeping habits,” she said, putting just a little too fine a point on it, as if she knew full well that Sueńos de Diamante was where billionaires came to network and hook up with one another. And then, with an embarrassed look, she said, “Mr. Sterling prefers a sunset view himself, but I find I like it better to be reminded when the day is beginning rather than when it’s ending.”
“Very thoughtful,” I told her. “But since I have the option, I’ll try the one with both. Provided it isn’t made entirely of glass.”
“Oh there’s one of those, too,” the attendant said, nodding her head with a far-off look, as if she’d set foot in it once, a very long time ago. “Can I get you another glass of cabernet before we land?”
“No thank you. Coffee’s great.” I didn’t like to look flushed when I met a client, perhaps especially one with accommodations as lavish as those of Mr. Sterling. The flight attendant had already inquired my measurements and favorite colors so that I could be given access to a full wardrobe of bathing suits, evening gowns, and whatever else I might like to avail myself of during my stay at the resort. I was already beginning to wonder if Mr. Sterling wanted a lawyer or a date, but tried not to read too much into his relentless extravagance. He was used to entertaining people who had far more money than an attorney from Boston. Still, I hoped my suit jacket and pencil skirt would make clear I was here for business and not for pleasure.
I stepped off the plane not onto the usual staircase but onto a futuristic curvy walkway that slithered over a man-made pond shining blue and clear, the pond’s surface decorated with lotuses and lily-pads, its depths alive with koi as long as my forearms. The air was clear and warm and carried the smell of tropical flowers and the distant hiss of the waves breaking. The path twisted and turned through mini-islands thick with palm trees and ferns, and for a long minute I wondered if I had been let off at the botanical gardens instead of the Sterling House. But around the next bend the pond slipped out of view and the palm trees turned to a lush lawn that sloped gently down to meet the path. The walkway itself widened and faded almost imperceptibly into the landscape, its rows of border lights dimming as they sank into the grass.
At the crest of the rising green stood the Sterling House, nearly a castle really, it had so many wide, flat wings and levels unfolding over the landscape like a modern art museum or some such architectural indulgence. In front of the center wing, an ornate silver archway stood entwined with bright tropical flowers I couldn’t name, a bush-lined path beyond. I passed under the arch, and halted, holding my briefcase close to me as a giant blue bird shot from the bushes. A peacock. It took to the air, quite a strange sight, its ostentatious tail wavering awkwardly as it flew, and for a second I was struck by how forlorn it seemed, like a lost goose searching for a homeward-flying V.
“Don’t worry, they don’t bite,” a woman’s voice said, a sweet Costa Rican accent in her voice. “Welcome to Sterling House. You must be Miss Jansen.”
“Yes I am.”
Whoever she was, she was stunning. She said, “Let me take your briefcase.”
“Thank you. I’ll hold onto it for now.” Intuitively, something about her perfect smile, her practiced hospitality, seemed too exact to be genuine, and I like to know precisely where my files are at all times. In my work I’ve met a lot of people I can tell next to nothing about simply because of how deeply buried they are in layers upon layers of impeccable manners. Sometimes I wonder what’s beneath all that, and sometimes I think they’ve lived so long in a culture of politeness that there’s nothing underneath, and the mask has become the face.
I reached out and shook her hand. She said, “My name is Andrea. Let me know if you need anything. A limousine, a scuba lesson, a dress, I’ll get it for you. I’m the one who keeps Sterling house running.”
“Oh yes, the flight attendant told me Mr. Sterling had a house manager.”
“House Mistress is the official title.”
“Of course.”
I followed her into the home, if that’s really what it was. On the inside, every room felt like an airplane hangar in its hugeness. The ceiling of the entry room was a dome of sparkling glass, the floor an intricate masterwork of tile woven into some enormous tropical image I couldn’t step back far enough to grasp. Andrea led me past an indoor gym and swimming pool, a patio with its own full bar, and everywhere, everywhere the walls opened up into floor-to-ceiling windows out onto the waving tops of the green palm trees, the pale beaches, the clear blue sea beyond.
“Mr. Sterling is out at the moment, but he wants you to be as comfortable as possible,” Andrea said. “You requested the South Bedroom, is that right?”
“I’m sure I would be comfortable anywhere,” I said.
Andrea shook her hand back and forth. “No no no no, not so much modesty. For the duration of your stay, Sterling House is your house and you may use it as you see fit as long as you’re here. All right?”
I couldn’t help smiling. I’m well aware of how well-to-do I am compared to most people, and my house in Cape Cod was not cheap, but compared to this place, it looked like plebian suburbia. Funny how no matter how much money you make, there’s always someone further up the ladder, and not just one rung but many.
“So tell me,” Andrea said. “You want the South Bedroom?” She flung open a pair of beautiful wooden double doors, and took my hand as though she thought of herself as a fairy godmother leading me into some magical palace. Leave it to Victor Sterling, billionaire investor, entrepreneur of multiple businesses, including his own private space tourism company, and most recently, unveiler of a plan to completely redesign this already majestic resort into a futuristic paradise more forward-thinking and advanced than even anything in Dubai, complete with, no kidding, its own space port where the super-rich could line up to see the planet Earth from an even more kingly viewpoint than they already did. They would travel to the edge of the atmosphere, where the planet’s curvature came to view and its blue air faded into the black of space, and then they would land on the ocean, where a private yacht would meet them and ferry them back to Sueńos de Diamante. Leave it to Victor Sterling to make even the relatively wealthy walk into a bedroom and feel like Cinderella at the palace.
The South Bedroom, which must itself have been as large as an entire floor of my home in Cape Cod, if not bigger, had three glass walls, all of which looked out onto postcard-perfect views of the island and ocean. In the middle of that enormous space sat a bed even bigger than king-size, impossibly wide and long, large enough to sleep a dozen people, and piled at the headboard with enough pillows to match. Sunk in the floor at one end of the room was a Jacuzzi, neighbored by a walk-in shower and an enormous bathroom I couldn’t even begin to see in its entirety from here. There also was a glass door leading presumably to the private beach. At the other end of the room sat two leather armchairs and a couch, a freestanding fireplace, and a full kitchen with another glass door out to a secluded stone patio. And behind me, on either side of the entryway, stood four walk-in closets, two on each side.
Andrea looked at me earnestly. “You want me to show you the other rooms?”
“No, no, this is fantastic. This is… unbelievable.”
She gave me a sly smile. “Mr. Sterling aims to please.”
“Yes. Yes, I can see that.”
“You don’t like anything, we’ll change it. Just let us know.”
I couldn’t imagine any possible way to improve this room, but maybe if someone was used to this level of luxury every day, it could get boring. I’ve stayed in my share of resorts over the years, but Sueńos de Diamante had to take the cake for sheer indulgence.
No wonder all of the people who were invested in it didn’t want it to change. Suddenly I understood why Sterling was trying desperately to settle out of court and satisfy the condo owners who thought a space tourism port was a really bad idea.
Andrea left me alone to settle into the room, informing me she would ring when Sterling was ready to meet. I put my briefcase on the bed, having re-read its contents yet another time on the flight, and ready to treat myself to a mental break from law, even if only for a minute. I couldn’t ask for a better place to do so. The bed had a nightstand with two glasses and three bottles: red and white wines and champagne, the latter resting in a shining silver-plated, flower-topped bucket of ice. Each of the many pillows on the bed couched a foil-wrapped chocolate. I took off my shoes and blazer and fell back onto what felt like an endless expanse of delicate softness, the mattress so enormous I might have been a little girl on it. I laughed, the way a child would laugh, at the simple joy of such things.
And I thought of Nick, back on the mainland. It was only two in the afternoon. My meeting with Sterling wasn’t for another hour. Why not call him?
I took my phone from my briefcase and found his number. He might not pick up in the middle of the day, but I wanted to share this strange, sudden childlike happiness with someone.
He answered with his business voice. “Nick Burgess.”
“Hey. Nick. It’s June.”
I could almost hear him give me that skeptical smile. “You’re calling me in the middle of a work day?”
“I know. You won’t believe where I am right now.”
“I have a client in like ten minutes.”
“I know, I don’t want to bother you. But I’ve got this client who owns a private island resort, and I’m staying in what has to be the biggest bedroom suite in the northern hemisphere.”
“Tall order.”
“No joke, the bed is as big as a swimming pool. You could fit ten people in it.”
“Planning to do so?”
“Oh stop it. I might bring one guy back here. Maybe. If I have time. Though you’d probably enjoy imagining me with more than one, wouldn’t you?”
“Whoa there, June. That definitely constitutes flirting.”
“Teasing. There’s a difference.” Had it been eight years already since we’d broken up? It seemed like only last week he’d been begging me not to leave him. He was probably on his fourth or fifth girlfriend since then. But I had a rule I would not break: no dating other lawyers. Not even if he’s been your best friend for a decade. There was an amount of mental space I was willing to devote to work, and having a partner in the same profession forced that space beyond its limit.
“Well,” he said, “enjoy your big bed. Call me sometime when it’s evening.”
“Will do. Have a good meeting.”
God, I missed him sometimes. When we were still seeing each other, both right out of law school, I’d wait to fall asleep with his big arms around me, and stroke the hairs on them, the warm skin, until I felt like I could sink my back into his chest and slip into a comforting cloud of oneness. Nothing turned me on more than a man whose strength was equaled by his gentleness, and when we made love I would wrap my legs around his back and my arms around his neck, and feel him inside, big and solid and strong, but always gentle—even when I told him to be rougher, still somehow he infused it with so much tenderness I just melted and held him tight when I came. I was starting to feel like one of those closed-eyed women in a chocolate commercial just remembering it.
Where we didn’t get along was in the contrasting ways we approached work. He put his heart fully into it, taking cases he believed in and arguing them passionately, making less money but feeling fulfilled every day. Unlike him, I divorced myself from my work and left my emotions at home. I got more cases, and I moved up the ranks. It worked well for each of us, but when your philosophies clash so thoroughly, it’s all you end up talking about. He thought I was killing the warm-blooded human in me, and told me I looked miserable even though what I really felt was determination. In the end, I told him I needed space to develop myself into the lawyer I needed to be, not the lawyer he was. He took it hard, and didn’t give up on me easily, and in the end we kept in touch. Once we no longer felt the pressure of staying together, we found better things to talk about. After a while the phone calls stopped being awkward and felt as natural as calling a friend. When he started seeing someone else, I cheered him on.
Alone in this magnificent room, with the silken sheets and softness under me and Nick’s warm voice still in my mind, I closed my eyes and nuzzled the pillows, allowing myself a brief fantasy, or memory, sometimes it was hard to tell which, of his lips and his tongue on mine, on my neck, on the soft nook above my collar bone, on the upper softness of my breasts, his sweet mouth teasing my nipples, kissing my ribs, my side, my hips, and that wonderful suddenness that made me let out a little moan when his silky tongue touched my hot swelling down there. God, he was good. Some of the men I’d slept with since then never went down on me, or were even turned off by it, but if they had known, realized what it reduced me to, what it made me want to do to the man who did for me, they might have changed their minds.