“I’m fine,” Gemma said, then playfully pushed Tish. “Don’t analyze me like I’m some endangered butterfly.”
“I know. You always come back stronger. Do you want me to join you?” Tish asked.
“Thanks for the offer. But I want to rest, do nothing for three days before I head back to London. I need some me time.” The last thing she wanted was to deal with the press, paparazzi, and more Johnny Flauto fallout in London. Also, she wanted to see Xavi again. To ease her mind.
“You let me know when you want me time to be we time, and I’ll be on the next bird out of Heathrow.”
They hugged.
“Take this,” Tish said, handing her a Sudoku puzzle book. “It’ll keep the voices in your head occupied on the flight. Half the book when I see you later in the week, or you owe me fifty quid.”
Gemma tucked the book in her carryon. “Remember, not a word to Wesley or Bedric until after I’m gone. They won’t understand and will assume the worst.”
“Understood.”
Gemma was silent for a moment. “Tish, don’t ask why, just do me a favor.”
“Anything.”
“Go and see if Andre, the American, is at the bar. Then text me.”
“And I can’t ask you why?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Can I guess?”
“No, you can’t.” Uncontrollably, Gemma beamed. There was that feeling again. Youth.
That night, lounging at the hotel bar, Andre watched highlights of the day’s match on the flat screen. Gemma had not come downstairs. For all he knew, she had already left.
“She is staying here at the Pullman,” the bartender said.
“The British player?”
“Oui, Gemma. She is so good.”
“What makes her good?”
“How do you say, angry and active on the court?”
“Aggressive?”
“Oui, like Capriati. She runs to the net all the time. Like the men, taking chances, but smooth like a ballerina. Also, powerful serves. She makes the match fun to watch.”
“Interesting.”
“And, of course,” the French bartender said with a dramatic flair, “she is the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Andre laughed, fully agreeing with the man’s sentiments, when a familiar sensation gave him pause. He swiveled slowly, scanning his surroundings. Nothing seemed out of place, but he couldn’t shake that all too familiar, yet uncomfortable, feeling. Was he being watched?
Gemma read Tish’s message. “Not at bar. Sorry G.”
She considered going downstairs just to be sure. Gemma had wanted to do that for the last couple of days, but had talked herself out of it, each time remembering what falling for the wrong guy had gained her.
She strode to her bag, found her scraggly stuffed dog of twenty-one years, then went to her bedroom and fell on the bed.
Probably best he wasn’t there. She couldn’t afford to get in that trap again.
She closed her eyes, recalling the unforced errors and lost chances on the court. Even so, she had done well this time. Xavi had been right. So long as she remained focused and shut out the noise, she could have a shot at winning it all. Thankfully, she’d get another chance in three weeks at Wimbledon. But each passing day held the possibility of an injury, a new star, a new nervous breakdown. Talent guaranteed nothing. She could lose in the first round.
Her mobile rang. “Oh, bugger!” Gemma had forgotten to call back. “I’m sorry, Mum. I was packing and forgot–”
“You don’t have to explain. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.” Her voice was solid, honest.
The emotion that overcame her was instantaneous. Gemma covered her eyes, pushing back the tears. “I was so, so close,” she whispered.
“You played with heart. That’s all that matters. That’s what Dad always said.”
Her chest cramped. “I wanted to win for him.”
“Win for yourself, not him. He’s in heaven, proud of you, cheering you on.”
“Proud? Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Despite what you think, he loved you deeply and unconditionally.”
“Was he proud when I decided to find my birth parents? Did he love me when I told him he’s not my real father?”
“You were an emotional teenager. He understood. I understood.”
“I let him down in life and haven’t been able to make him proud in death.”
“My, you make your life sound like a Shakespearean tragedy. But it’s all melodrama, I assure you.” She wasn’t mad, upset or concerned. She sounded amused. “He loved you. He just didn’t know how to express it. Don’t turn this journey of yours into his. It’s yours. And you did bloody well today. Lift off from here.”
When had she turned into a philosopher? She was right, of course. Which was why Gemma was going back to visit Xavi to heed his old-school advice. He knew how to center her. “I’m going to visit Xavi and Mari for a few days.”
“Good. He’ll set your head straight. Send them my best and remind Mari I still want her recipe for Tortilla Española. I know I’ve butchered her other dishes, but I have a good feeling about this one.”
“I love you, Mum.”
“Even though I don’t know how to dress properly or apply makeup?”
“Particularly because of those things.”
“A sex symbol becomes a thing. I hate being a thing.”
~Marilyn Monroe
hen Andre and Roger stepped out of the taxi at Charles de Gaulle Airport, he spotted a large, loud, and disruptive crowd. The mob flowed toward the Air France entrance. He caught a glimpse of the nucleus. Cameras flashed, highlighting a tall woman with long black hair, pushing through with two security guards and what appeared to be airport staff.
Gemma.
“Goddamn paparazzi,” Roger mumbled under his breath.
Just then, from the way they moved and shuffled, focused solely on their target, Andre noted a pattern. They were susceptible.
“Do you like bowling?” Andre asked Roger.
“Bowling?”
Andre nudged his luggage, letting it roll down the entrance ramp’s decline. “Three, two, and–”
The luggage collided with the edge of the paparazzi. One stumbled, then grabbed the jacket of another. The chain reaction was immediate. Half fell to the floor. For an instant, the security personnel and Gemma looked confused.
“Strike!” Roger bellowed. Gemma whirled in their direction. Her eyes locked on Andre’s, and even though her crew moved quickly, the tether didn’t break until the sliding doors shut behind her.
“What the hell? Wasn’t she the tennis star we saw yesterday?” Roger asked.
“Yeah, maybe. Let’s go. Good deed of the day done. It’s time for our full cavity search. Airport security and rectal examinations are becoming synonymous.”
Andre eyed the headlines at the newsstand. Both English and French rags proclaimed the same message. “Gemma is crushed after loss… Considering quitting tennis… Leaving country.”
Andre and Roger had just found their way to the departure gate when a voice announced, “Can Monsieur Andre Reyes check in with an Air France agent? Monsieur Andre Reyes to any Air France booth.”
Andre spun around. “Did they just call me?”
“Yup. Probably screwed up something.”
That’s the last thing he needed. He just wanted to go home and enjoy his first vacation in years. An agent directed him to the Air France lounge, where he was then escorted to a semi-private table. A friendly face smiled up at him.
“Join me if you have time before your flight,” Gemma said, her eyes soft.
“Love to,” he said as he sat. The air seemed fresh, full of jasmine.
“Thank you for what you did,” she said.
He shrugged. “If not me–”
“Then who?” she completed.
Andre peered into her eyes. He didn’t see her typical posturing. She looked drawn, honest. She looked
phenomenal.
“Do you get that all the time?”
“Every waking moment,” she said in a whisper. “I’m a target. Fair game. You see, fame inadvertently gives permission to have a camera shoved in my face wherever I go. I allow them to hang on my car, chase me down, and write anything they want about me. They know I will not retaliate. And if someone claims I did something wrong, true or not, I will always settle. Bastards like them can make a healthy living off me for as long as I matter.”
She paused, her eyes glistening, and glanced over her shoulder. Andre gazed in the same direction. Eyeballs were trained on them. She produced a rehearsed smile. One designed for public settings.
“Furthermore,” she whispered, “what I just told you will probably end up in People magazine. I can’t trust anyone. So why am I telling you?” Her smile faltered. “Call it temporary insanity.”
He was getting a sense for her world. Her small, suffocating world. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he said, leaning in for more privacy. “And if I don’t, I’ll kick myself. It’s an important question.”
She sipped water through a straw, never breaking eye contact.
“Gemma, are you stalking me?”
She coughed, nearly spilling the water.
“Everywhere I go, you’re there.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “This is getting very uncomfortable.”
“And I was so certain I’d covered my steps.”
“I’m very perceptive. Nothing gets past me.”
“I’ve noticed. Like, say, famous personalities?”
“Particularly those.”
“Yet you found your way to your stalker’s pathetic match.”
“What made it pathetic? I thought it was phenomenal.”
“That’s because the American won.”
“Are you sure? I was too busy watching two gladiators fighting it out. I wasn’t following the score. The score seems to trivialize the result, don’t you think?”
Her eyes widened. “Trivialize? In my world, the score is the only thing that matters.”
He considered what drove professional athletes: the love or the outcome of the game. “You were amazing. Poetic in the way you played.”
“Thank you, but I still lost.”
“Technical matter. Do you always let facts get in your way?”
“And how did you end up there? You were so convincing when you told me you didn’t know who I was.”
He read suspicion in her eyes. “It’s true. Sorry, didn’t mean to bruise your hard-earned celebrity. I had no clue who you were.”
“So it’s a coincidence? Breakfast, the bar, the match, and the airport?”
“Perhaps these things have nothing to do with you.”
She gave a sly smile. “Are you saying I think the world is all about me?”
“Well…”
“How dare you? Are you calling me self-centered? Do you know who I am?”
He rose his hands in surrender. “Not exactly self-centered, Your Highness. All I’m suggesting is you shouldn’t assume everyone’s out to get you.” He let it sink in for a few seconds. “Also, I thought we established you’re the one stalking me.”
“Sorry, I forgot.”
“As for the game, my client invited me to the match.”
“What type of work do you do?”
“I solve problems. The kind people think can’t be solved.”
“As in mysteries? What types of problems are unsolvable?”
“I suppose they are mysterious at first. I help with technical problems, obscure math, scientific issues, and other messy stuff. Once my clients give up, they call me for help.”
“But you’re so young. Are you one of those brainiacs?”
His smile froze. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“How exciting. Do you like what you do?”
“Sure, I guess. But the constant travel gets old–nearly debilitating.” The heaviness of his life weighed on him. Silence crept in. “At least on this trip I got to meet you.”
Gemma’s brow rose, and her lips parted slightly. A real, honest face emerged.
“So tell me, Gemma, do you like what you do?”
“Boarding for Air France flight 77 to Los Angeles will commence in five minutes,” the intercom announced.
“Crap, that’s my flight.” He paused, torn. He wanted to stay with her, but he had to go home, see his friends, and enjoy his first vacation in seven years. “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again?”
“As your stalker, I’ll be sure to find you,” she said, then latched onto his eyes. “It was lovely talking to you. And again, thank you for coming to my rescue.”
“Anytime.”
He rose, ready to leave, when he decided to lean in close to say something. She stiffened. Electricity hummed off her body. He slowly regained his composure. “Not everyone wants to use you.”
And when her eyes lit up, inches away from his face, he wondered if he could delay his flight home for just an hour. Or a week.
“There you are,” Roger said. “What happened? Did they screw up something?”
“No, all’s well,” Andre said as he collected his bag and headed toward priority boarding. He could feel Roger’s probing eyes against his back. There was no way he would tell Roger about Gemma. As good as M&T had been to him financially, they were no friend to the personal lives of their principal consultants.
“By the way,” Roger leaned to whisper, “something’s come up with Homeland Security. This is in advance of Project Sunrise.”
Andre shuddered. Project Sunrise was the classified initiative led by the Pentagon. A project that would remove him from the grid for at least three months. These were the worst of the worst. In his career, he had been part of a few such efforts, each one leaving him more depleted than the last.
“So we may need to go to D.C. next week,” Roger said.
Andre came to a dead stop. “Wait–what? I’ve taken next week off.”
“We’ll know more on Tuesday. Enjoy Memorial Day. Just don’t do anything to put that prized brain of yours at risk. Depending on what we hear, we may need to get flexible.”
“Roger, I’ve made plans. And what’s with ‘we’? You never go to D.C. and furthermore, even if you did, you’re not allowed to enter the facility; you’re not classified.” Andre spun in the opposite direction.
Other passengers stared at them.
“Where are you going? We’re boarding.”
“I need to get something first. You go ahead.” If he stayed, he was bound to say or do something he’d regret.
The Illy Cafe was a short walk away. He ordered a double espresso, then slumped down on a stool. He studied a couple who appeared to be on vacation. A novel concept. Seven years with the company, and he had yet to get one week to himself. Every vacation had been interrupted by some important engagement. Initially he’d felt compelled to put his life on hold and prove himself. Then it was the greed. His commission payments were astronomic, and the correlation was direct–the more he pushed himself, the more he earned. But a year ago, when one of his closest friends died of cancer at the age of twenty-three, he knew he needed a drastic change in his life.
In a few months, once he received his retention bonus, he’d walk away from all of this.
He sipped the rest of his espresso, then grabbed his bags and headed to the terminal. Something tightened in his neck. Another headache. He eyed the spa store, wondering how quickly they could massage his neck. Then he caught a whiff of a jasmine-scented perfume.
Gemma.
He realized a silly grin had reshaped his face. Probably looked goofy, but he didn’t care. He conjured the memory of her eyes, her lips, her voice. Immediately, raw energy added a bounce to his steps. He would find a way to get in touch with her again, to know the inner Gemma he saw behind those eyes. He had many contacts, particularly in England.
At the priority gate, he handed his boarding pass and passport. He was one of the last
to board.
“Bonjour,” the attendant said.
The machine yelped and the screen flashed erreur.
“Is everything okay?” he asked.
“One moment please,” she said, typing feverishly on the computer. “Ah, you have a new boarding pass. Seat change.”
“That’s odd. I reserved the seat I wanted yesterday.”
“I don’t know, sir,” she said as she handed him the new boarding pass.
The new pass said First Class, which didn’t make sense. M&T’s contract called for the client to pay for business class. Maybe Air France had upgraded him? Or had Roger upgraded their tickets to make up for the canceled vacation plans? If so, it was pitiful and transparent.
Andre stepped onto the plane and turned left, passing through business class. But Roger was still there. Odd.
“Where are you going?” Roger asked.
“I’ve been upgraded.”
Roger’s mouth slackened. Upon reflection, Andre was glad Roger wouldn’t be next to him for the next eleven hours.
His boarding pass identified his seat as 2B. When he turned, he noticed the passenger occupying seat 2A and froze in place.
Gemma turned toward him. “Hope you don’t mind the upgrade.”
Words didn’t register on his lips fast enough. “Wait, you upgraded me?” he asked.
“Guilty.” She produced a shy smile. “If you’re going to fly to Los Angeles, you might as well have a proper seat.”
He transferred his bag from one hand to the other. “Are you sure you’re ready to spend the next eleven hours with a stranger who may sell you out to People magazine?”
Her angelic eyes brightened. “I’m willing to take a chance on you.”
The presumption is that the person serving has an advantage over the receiver. Therefore it is only possible to win the match by breaking, or defeating, the opponent’s serve. The service must be broken at least once, if the opponent has any hopes of forcing the match into a tiebreak.
~Tennis Basics
“All the events of your life are there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.”
Game of Love Page 5
