The Player's Club: Lincoln

by Cathy Yardley

  “No,” Juliana answered, a chill in her voice to match Lincoln’s stare. “It obviously doesn’t work.”

  “NO WAY, FINN.”

  Lincoln stalked from the store, heading blindly toward Union Square. Only after he’d gotten a block did he realize he couldn’t remember where he’d parked his car. He felt dizzy, almost drunk.

  Finn grabbed his arm. “You said I could bring anybody in that I wanted,” he growled. “Well, Jules has been a friend of mine for a few years.”

  “You could’ve warned me about her,” Lincoln said, shaking off his hand and contemplating, briefly, taking a swing at him. What the hell had Finn been thinking? Or rather, what body part had he been thinking with? “But, no. Instead, you decide to have me meet her, without a single clue as to who she was, or what she was. All at a damned lingerie store!”

  As if the sight of her wasn’t going to be burned on his brain forever. Just thinking about her, even tangentially, brought the image to mind in IMAX 3D, clear and mouthwatering and sensually overwhelming. His mouth went dry as he thought about her standing there, curvaceous and sexy and utterly seductive, wearing the hell out of that merry widow, her eyes gleaming with laughter as she knew, knew every man who looked at her would want to have her....

  He growled impatiently at himself now.

  “What is your problem?” Finn snapped. “You’re completely overreacting. So she’s been in the tabloids, maybe a few magazines—”

  “She’s a media whore,” Lincoln growled. “Do you really think that she’s joining up because she’s bored and merely looking for a few kicks?”

  “Yes, actually, I do,” Finn answered. Then he looked around. “Let’s not have this conversation in the middle of the street, shall we?”

  Lincoln realized that he’d actually been making a scene, blocking pedestrian traffic, and grimaced. Only one brief meeting with the woman and already she was shaking his usually unflappable composure. What would happen if he wound up spending any sort of time with her? He shuddered at the thought.

  “Right.” They headed for Union Square. It was the middle of the day: tourists were wandering around, gawking and window-shopping. There were some people dotting the grass, some eating lunch at the benches. The sun was shining, so there were even some sunbathers. The walk helped him settle his frayed nerves. It wasn’t complete privacy, but it was a nice, quiet public spot where they wouldn’t be overheard, or even noticed. “I know she’s your friend, Finn, and I know I said you could bring on any pledge you wanted…”

  “Okay, let’s just stop right there.” The steel in Finn’s voice surprised Lincoln, and Lincoln halted and stared at him. “You’re acting like you’re the king and God of the Player’s Club, rolled into one. I don’t need to ask your permission, Lincoln. We started this together. I’m not your little brother or your damned employee.”

  Lincoln frowned. Juliana had scored a direct hit with that one. “You’re right,” he said, and meant it.

  “Good. Since we’ve got that straight, you have been squirrelly—more so than usual—ever since we kicked George out.” Finn crossed his arms. “What gives, man? Why are you being so weird? You’re acting like frickin’ McCarthy—like every new pledge is out to get us, and we’ve got to protect ourselves. What are you so afraid of?”

  Lincoln took a deep breath. “I hadn’t figured I’d been so, ah, squirrelly,” he said carefully. And he hadn’t. The fact that he hadn’t noticed his increased vigilance about the club was a little more disturbing. “I just… The Club means a lot to me.”

  “Like it doesn’t mean a lot to me?”

  Lincoln didn’t respond immediately. He and Finn were like brothers—Finn was closer to him than anybody on earth.

  That said, he still hadn’t told Finn everything about himself, or his past. And even with the added stress lately, he didn’t think he could do that now.

  “Let me ask you a few questions,” Lincoln said, and Finn rolled his eyes impatiently. “First—did you think about inviting her before she called, or after?”

  Finn kicked at the grass beneath his feet as a dreadlocked skateboarder zipped by without a second glance. “After. But hell, if I’d have thought of her earlier, I would’ve called her.”

  Lincoln felt the suspicion start to hum through him like a tuning fork. “Why did she get in touch with you, anyway?”

  “She was bored, came across my number scrolling through her phone, thought she’d give me a call.” Finn shot him a lightning grin. “We weren’t really close, but she knows everybody I know. It totally sounds like something she’d do. Okay, you might not understand that, but trust me, Juliana Mayfield is not a woman who does well with being bored.”

  No, he imagined not. There was something about her that was mischievous and fascinating, mercurial as a flash flood. Yet another reason he was cautious about her. “You’ve always been as careful as I’ve been to keep the club secret.” For Finn, the secrecy was yet another “fun” aspect of what they did. Finn didn’t realize just how ingrained secrecy was to Lincoln. “Why’d you tell her…a tabloid fixture of all people?”

  “It just sort of happened,” Finn said, defensive. “It’s not like I was bragging or talking to a reporter.”

  They both knew that was how they managed to kick George out: he’d blabbed to a reporter, trying to get their pledge Scott kicked out. It had backfired, and had caused the Player’s Club to cut out a lot of the deadweight: party boys, overaged frat wannabes. Guys who liked being in a secret club so they could drink, do stupid stunts and lord it over anybody who wasn’t in the club. That wasn’t what Lincoln or Finn had wanted at all, and it was definitely not what Lincoln wanted the club to return to.

  “So you thought, despite the fact that you hadn’t really spoken with her in years, that she’d make a good pledge.”

  “Considering what you and I talked about at the sweat lodge, about needing someone who had already had a bunch of adventures and could bring some life to the club,” Finn returned stubbornly, “I thought she’d be a perfect candidate, especially since we’ve been looking for more female members.”

  Lincoln closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. “You don’t see that she probably set this up, do you?”

  “Like I said—you’re being paranoid.” Finn walked in a tight circle, frustration etched in every movement. “What is it going to take for you to trust her? Because if you keep up like this, there aren’t going to be any new pledges. We’re just going to be the same thirty guys and, what, two girls, and we’re not going to have any new ideas or imagination or fresh blood. You might think that’s protective, but that’s not what we started the club for, either, and you know it.”

  Lincoln sighed. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But I have a bad feeling about this. In my gut, I think she’s just going into this to use us.”

  “Use us for what?”

  “I don’t know,” Lincoln admitted.

  “Good. That’s good. That makes you sound a lot less crazy,” Finn said, shaking his head. “I’m going to call her and tell her she’s a pledge, okay? Besides, if you’re that worried, maybe she won’t make it through the challenges. She’s done almost everything on the planet. Whatever she chooses for her last three adventures will probably be mind-blowing.”

  Despite himself, Lincoln was momentarily intrigued. What would a woman like that pick as her three challenges?

  But he knew better than to entertain fantasies that she’d fail. Somehow, he got the feeling that what that woman decided to tackle, she did with a single-mindedness that probably matched his own. It made him wonder, for just a second, what she’d be like if that single-mindedness was directed to a more sensual purpose.

  He clenched his jaw. Big mistake. The image of her, now nude and in his bed, dominated his thoughts for a second, almost bringing him to his knees.

  “I’ll make sure that she doesn’t do anything too crazy,” Finn said, and Lincoln let out a bitter laugh.

  “Saying tha
t you’re going to keep her from doing something reckless is like making Keith Richards a high-school-prom chaperone.” Lincoln shook his head. “No. I’ll go along with her becoming a pledge, but I want to be her mentor on this one.”

  “You?” Finn frowned. “You kind of hate her. How is that going to be helpful?

  “Maybe I just don’t know her well enough,” Lincoln said, feeling a little calmer. A little more in control. If he could just get a sense of what she was up to, he could prove what was happening. He’d make Finn see what his gut was already telling him: that she might be sexy as hell, but she was also dangerous and up to no good.

  Finn’s eyes narrowed. “If you don’t trust me, Lincoln,” he said, in a low voice, “then I don’t know how much longer I’m going to want to be a player.”

  Lincoln felt a moment of pain. “I do trust you, man.” And he did. He’d trust Finn with his life, with his fortune. The only thing he hadn’t trusted him with so far was his secret, but he’d spent a lifetime nurturing his parents’ lies. Finn was the best friend he’d ever had, but old habits died hard.

  Bottom line: he didn’t trust Juliana Mayfield. And he was going to protect his best friend and his family—The Player’s Club. Whether they wanted that protection or not.

  3

  THE LIGHTS FROM THE Bay Bridge twinkled in the sky. Juliana contemplated them through the floor-to-ceiling windows on the 37th floor of her luxury condominium, then turned back to her laptop. It was one o’clock in the morning.

  She sighed, taking a sip of the lovely red wine in her Steuben glass. It was one of her better vintages: she probably shouldn’t have opened it, but she’d really wanted a glass of wine after today’s shenanigans.

  “Lincoln Stone, Lincoln Stone,” she muttered, tapping quickly on the keyboard. “Who the hell are you, Lincoln Stone?”

  She’d been trying to find out the answer to that question since she’d gotten dressed and left Agent Provocateur without buying so much as a bra. She’d been on the phone all afternoon, asking everybody in her contact list if they knew of him. So far, nothing: he either didn’t ring any bells, or they couldn’t quite place how they knew him. She couldn’t afford a private investigator, so she’d done the next best thing: fired up her computer and started to search on Google.

  After several hours, she’d managed a big, fat zero. Unless he was also secretly an immigration lawyer in L.A., an actor in New York or a big hunk of rock with Abraham Lincoln’s picture on it, the Lincoln Stone she was interested in had no Google tracks.

  It was frustrating. She wasn’t giving up, she thought, but she was getting some more wine.

  She figured he was rich, at least. His clothes looked expensive, if understated—the navy dress shirt was expensive linen, and the slacks were tailored. Even his shoes looked like Italian leather. Finn might’ve dressed like a college kid, but he was rolling in money. Was this a case of opposites attracting…or maybe something more sinister? Was Lincoln some kind of mooch or something, bleeding money from his richer friend?

  As quickly as she thought of it, she rejected the idea. She conjured up a mental picture of Lincoln, rolling through their encounter at Agent Provocateur in her mind as if it had been a movie. Like his surname, he seemed as cold, hard and unforgiving as granite. She should’ve been put off by his high-handed attitude; she didn’t respect or enjoy guys who threw their weight around. But in his case, he wasn’t putting on a show. He came across as being somehow more wary than macho…overbearing, yes, but oddly protective, like a Secret Service agent or something.

  It struck a chord in her. She knew most of her “friends” would probably throw her under the bus for profit or even occasionally out of boredom. The fact that he might be trying to protect Finn was intriguing.

  He didn’t trust her, she thought, and he was right there. He suspected her. It hurt, but he wasn’t wrong, and he obviously wasn’t stupid. Another point in his favor, even if it screwed up her plans.

  The fact that he also had piercing hazel eyes and a lean yet muscular build that made her wonder what he looked like naked only completed the package. She sighed, thinking about how she might’ve liked wearing that merry widow in front of him in different circumstances. He had great hands, she thought, caressing the keyboard. She wondered absently if he knew how to use them. And his mouth. When it wasn’t pulled into a stern scowl, what could he do with those surprisingly sensual lips?

  Better, what could she do with them?

  She got up, pacing across her thick, white carpeting. The upkeep for this place was killing her. She couldn’t afford to fantasize about some guy she’d just met. She needed to look at the bigger objective: get into the Player’s Club. Lock in a reality-show deal. Pay her bills.

  Lincoln might be hotter than a Hawaiian volcano, but right now, he was simply an obstacle in her way.

  Her phone rang, startling her, and she glanced at the number. She figured it was probably a drunken Carolyn, asking why she wasn’t out at the latest hot club or wild party. She’d already gotten a few text messages about going on George’s yacht. She groaned, thinking to shut it off. But she didn’t recognize the number, so, curious, she answered it.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Lincoln,” he said, without preamble. Then, after a pause, she could actually hear a note of wry amusement in his tone. “I’m the guy you met this morning. When you were in your underwear.”

  “Like that narrows it down,” she said in a breezy tone, even as her mind started to whir. Why in the world was he calling her now? “But as it happens, Mr. Stone, you are definitely memorable.”

  “I think it’s safe to say the same. I’m in your lobby. Mind if I come up?”

  She blanched. “My lobby?” she echoed, stunned. She’d guessed he’d gotten her number from Finn, but her address? “How do you know where I live?”

  “I’ve got skills,” he said, and the smile in his voice was clear. “I know it’s late, but I’d like to see you, to discuss the club.”

  “Really.” All her nerves tingled. Was he making an offer, then? What was he up to? “I don’t generally invite men up to my condo at one in the morning. Maybe we should reschedule.”

  “I’ve already seen you half-naked,” he reminded her, his voice pitched low, rubbing over her skin like mink. “I assure you, if I didn’t threaten your virtue then, I won’t now.”

  She shivered…then glanced down. She was wearing a ratty pair of yoga pants and a SpongeBob SquarePants tank top. She’d already washed her makeup off. Yeah, he probably wasn’t going to want to jump her in this state, she thought ruefully, and tried to remember the last time a man had seen her without cosmetics. “Point taken, but really, tomorrow morning’s early enough.”

  “You’ve got one chance to get into the club,” he said. “And that means I need to talk to you in the next five minutes.”

  “A man who plays hardball,” she murmured, irritated. “Well, then. I’m on the thirty-seventh floor. The elevators…”

  “I see them,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.” Then he hung up.

  “Okay, rude.” She shut her phone, then dashed to the bathroom. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Clothes first, or makeup? Makeup. She quickly dusted her face with some powder, fluffed peach blush over her cheeks and lids, slicked on the world’s quickest coat of lip gloss. She was just stripping out of her sweats when she heard his low, insistent knock on the door.

  “Coming!” she called, cursing under her breath. She tore the tank over her head and grabbed the first handy garment she could find—a simple, slinky dress that was too simple to be dressy, but still a little too seductive to be casual. Feeling like an idiot, she forced herself to smile. She glanced through the peephole, and saw his tall, imposing figure through the tiny glass. Was it a distortion of the lens, she thought, or were his shoulders really that broad?

  She opened the door. “What a surprise,” she murmured, gesturing him in. “You wanted to talk about the club?”

&nb
sp; He nodded. “It should only take a few minutes.”

  “Fine. Can I get you a glass of wine?”

  “No, thank you.” Instead of sitting on the proffered couch, he walked to the windows. “Nice view.”

  “I like it.” She felt nervous…and impatient. “So. What brings you to my doorstep at this hour, Lincoln?”

  He turned to look at her.

  “I want to know what you really want with the Player’s Club, Juliana,” he said softly. “And I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied.”

  HE’D TAKEN HER BY SURPRISE, which was the point. Lincoln sat on her couch, trying to remain focused. Still, he couldn’t help but stare at her, wearing a silky, skimpy little plum-colored dress. It looked too dressy to be a nightgown, too seductive to be worn outside the house.

  Did she have company? He felt his body tense angrily at the thought, then scolded himself. Why the hell do you care? It’s none of your business.

  She was rebounding. It was one of the things he had to admire about her—she was quick on her feet. Her smile was minxlike and quick.

  “Trust me, most of the men leaving my condo are satisfied,” she said, and she strode barefoot across the room, her burnt-honey waves tumbling around her bare shoulders, her silky dress whispering against her skin. He wanted to reach out, tug her down next to him on the couch. Pull her taut against him and just taste her. Just take her.

  He shook his head. “I’m serious, Juliana.”

  “I’m usually serious about satisfaction,” she shot back mischievously, sitting at an office chair and shutting the laptop. He frowned as he got a glance at the screen before she closed it.

  “Looking me up on Google?”

  “What?” she asked, trying for innocence, then shrugged.

  “Don’t lie to me, Juliana,” he warned in a quiet voice.

  She sighed, her expression of innocence blurring into one of gentle irritation. She got up, crossed her arms. “I was trying to find out who the hell you are, and what your problem is.” She tilted her head, violet eyes surveying him with frustration. “Apparently, you’re a frickin’ ghost.”