The Kissing Game

by Suzanne Brockmann

  And now, here she was, staring at the eggshell-fine cracks in the elegant old hotel ceiling in the early morning light, miserable as hell.

  She was a fool for making love to Simon. Yes, he was hard to resist, but resisting him was not impossible. She'd been resisting him for years. But now she was no longer content with her life because she'd had a taste of what it would be like to have Simon as a permanent, full-time lover.

  And she knew damn well that the words permanent and full-time weren't in Simon's vocabulary.

  Yes, she was a fool. She'd sampled the forbidden fruit, and now she was forced to see the truth she'd been hiding from herself for God only knows how many years.

  She loved Simon Hunt.

  It was sheer stupidity, because she could never, ever have him. Not for more than the fleeting few weeks that his affairs usually lasted. She knew she couldn't change him—she'd seen far too many women try to do that and fail. She was wise enough not to make that same mistake. She was smart enough to keep at least that much of her dignity.

  Still, she was in love with the man. She'd been forced to admit it. She couldn't deny it any longer. And now she was going to have to live with that, probably for the rest of her life.

  Although the pain of living with that knowledge was going to be a million times easier to handle than watching the desire in his eyes turn into that trapped look he always got a few weeks into a relationship. And that pain was nothing compared to the awful thought of his finding out her true feelings.

  And he would find out. If he so much as kissed her again, he'd see the love in her eyes.

  And then she'd see nothing but pity and fear in his eyes.

  It was too awful to consider.

  It was not, however, unavoidable.

  Soundlessly, she slipped out of bed and went into the bathroom, taking her suitcase and locking the door behind her.

  Ecstasy.

  It wasn't something that Simon had experienced frequently in his life.

  At least not before last night.

  He woke up smiling, remembering, reliving. He rolled over, hoping to find Frankie somewhere on one of the outer acres of the oversized bed, but came up empty-handed.

  She wasn't there.

  He sat up, alarmed, but sank back down, hearing the sound of the water running in the bathroom.

  He had to laugh at himself. For one panicked moment he'd imagined that she'd woken up early and sneaked out of the room. But that was ridiculous. This was her room. Besides, he was the one with the reputation for sneaking away after sexual encounters. And this time he wasn't going anywhere.

  He was in love with Frankie Paresky.

  So why hadn't he told her? I love you. Three words. Easy to pronounce. Not a tongue twister.

  He'd had plenty of opportunities. Such as when she woke him in the middle of the night ….

  Simon closed his eyes, reveling in the remembered ecstasy, feeling his morning arousal growing. After last night, he was amazed that he'd been celibate by choice for all those months. After last night, he was amazed that he'd known Frankie for close to twenty years, and yet he'd had no idea just how incredible making love to her could be.

  He listened to the noises in the bathroom, hoping for the sound of the shower. If Frankie turned on the shower, he'd get up, join her in there ….

  But the shower didn't go on. Instead, he heard the sound of a hair dryer. Was it really possible that she was done with her shower, and was already drying her hair? Simon turned to look at the clock on the television set. Seven A.M. Man, she must have been up early to be already showered by seven A.M.

  God, was Frankie a morning person? He definitely was not. That was going to take some getting used to. The thought was a little frigh t ening ….

  Frightening.

  There was more to this that was frightening than whether or not Frankie was a morning person. And that, Simon suddenly realized, was the real reason he hadn't been able to tell Frankie that he loved her.

  He was scared to death. Ecstatic, but scared to death all the same.

  He'd never felt like this before. He thought it was love. It had to be love. But what if everything he was feeling just up and disappeared? What if it faded? What if he was wrong and this burning sensation in his chest proved to be nothing but indigestion?

  And what if he made a promise that he couldn't keep?

  The sound of the hair dryer stopped, but Frankie still didn't come out of the bathroom. What was she doing in there?

  Simon threw back the covers and got out of bed.

  He padded, naked, over to the bathroom door and knocked. “Hey, Francine?”

  There was only silence from inside the bathroom.

  He knocked again. “Are you okay in there?”

  The bathroom door opened. Frankie. She was wearing a red cotton button-down shirt over a pair of jeans. She looked beautiful. Her hair was still a bit damp, and she smelled clean and fresh. Simon felt himself smile just at the sight of her.

  “Good morning.” He reached for her, wanting to feel her body next to his, but she stepped away.

  “I left your clothes out by the bed.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the bathroom counter. “I thought you'd be gone by now.”

  Simon heard her words but couldn't make any sense of them. “Gone?” What the hell was she talking about? The first thin blade of fear penetrated his heart. He reached for her again, and again she anticipated his move and slid farther down the counter, away from him. Something was wrong.

  She gazed down at the floor, as if she were afraid even to look in his direction. “I guess we have to talk.”

  “Okay. I'm listening.”

  She glanced up at him, then quickly away, looking back down at the floor. “Simon, you're naked.”

  “Yeah, I was naked last night too.” He kept his voice light, teasing. He even managed to smile. “You didn't seem to mind it then.”

  He'd meant it as a joke, but she didn't react at all. Something was very wrong here. His fear sharpened.

  “Would you please get dressed so we can talk?”

  Simon kept his voice even. “You mind if I, um, use the bathroom first?”

  She shook her head and vanished, closing the door behind her.

  Simon relieved himself, then washed his hands, staring at his face in the mirror. What the hell had he done wrong? It was clear this talk was going to be all bad news, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

  He splashed water onto his face. Whatever it was, it was a mistake, a misunderstanding. They'd talk, he'd clear it up, they'd order room service, and he'd sweet-talk her back into bed before the coffee was cool.

  He hoped.

  He dried his face on a towel and opened the bathroom door.

  His clothes were in a neat little pile right outside the door. Hint, hint.

  His boxer shorts and pants were still a little damp, but he pulled them on anyway. He didn't bother buttoning his shirt before he went out into the room.

  Frankie was sitting at a small table, sorting through one of the boxes from Jazz's mother's desk. She didn't look up until he sat down across from her.

  Her face was expressionless. The night before he'd been able to read every look, every smile, every movement of her face perfectly. But now all he could see was …. nothing.

  He took a deep breath. “Talk to me.”

  She looked up, steadily meeting his gaze with eyes that carefully guarded her every secret. “I just wanted to thank you for last night.”

  She wanted to what? Again, it was as if she were speaking a foreign language. Simon leaned forward. “Come again?”

  “Thank you,” she repeated. “Last night was …. fun.”

  Fun? Fun? Simon was speechless. Last night had been soul-shattering, not fun. Bowling was fun.

  “I just wanted to tell you that, you know, you don't have to worry. I, uh—” She hesitated, clearing her throat and pushing her hair back from her face.

 
Horseback riding on the beach was fun. A barbecue with friends was fun. As Simon gazed at her, she seemed to collect herself and continue.

  “I know what we shared was only a one-night stand, and …. “ She smiled, but it was nothing like the smiles she'd given him the night before. “I'm okay with that. I knew that before this whole affair started, and that's good, that's all that I wanted. I mean, we got it all out of our systems, right? Now everything can just go back to normal.”

  Going to the movies was fun. Casual sex was fun.

  Simon was stunned. He'd had an incredible night of ecstasy, and she'd had a fun night of casual sex.

  Normal. One-night stand. Out of our systems. Her words echoed in his mind. How many times in the past had he thought or felt or even said similar things? He didn't much like hearing those words now.

  “A one-night stand,” he repeated slowly, choosing each word carefully, afraid he'd slip and give himself away. “Don't you want …. something more than that, Francine?”

  “No.” She didn't hesitate before she spoke, and again she held his gaze steadily, forcefully. Coldly. “I don't. I'm not—I never was—interested in anything more from you than friendship, Si. You know that.”

  I love you. Simon's teeth were clenched as he nodded. “I see.” He couldn't tell her now—God, how could he?

  Frankie went back to work, quietly sorting through stacks of papers and files.

  Simon was at a total loss. What was it that friends did, exactly, after a night of fun casual sex? Did they order breakfast? Read the morning paper?

  Or did they do what he always did, and slink back to their rooms alone, aware that the togetherness of the previous night hadn't been real, that it was only a nebulous illusion they'd temporarily pretended had substance and worth?

  Simon stood up.

  Or did they drop to their knees, burying their faces in their lover's laps, begging them to reconsider, baring their broken hearts and shattered souls as they proclaimed their undying love?

  He'd been on the receiving end of that before and hadn't much liked it either.

  “I'm going to my room to shower,” he told Frankie quietly.

  She barely even glanced up. “Okay.”

  “Call me if you …. need me. I'm in Room 765.”

  “Okay. I think I've got this under control though. Thanks.”

  Thanks. Simon picked up his shoes and socks from where he'd left them the night before. He looked back at Frankie, but she hadn't looked up.

  Thanks. He checked to make sure his wallet and his room key were in his pocket, then looked back at Frankie again. She still hadn't even moved.

  Thanks. He unlocked the door and turned the knob, and looked back at Frankie one last time. Nothing. Not so much as a glance.

  Simon let himself out and closed the door behind him, checking to see that it was locked. Slowly he walked around the corner to the elevator, totally, thoroughly numb.

  Inside the room, Frankie dropped her head onto her folded arms and wept.

  TWELVE

  FRANKIE SAT ON the very edge of the bed as she waited for Bradford Quinn to pick up his phone. Clay Quinn had been out of his office. He was in court all day, his secretary had told Frankie. He wouldn't be back until well after seven tonight, and probably wouldn't even have time to phone in to the office for messages before then. But did she want to leave a message anyway?

  Frankie had left John Marshall's phone number and address, and the news that she'd actually spoken to the man, who indeed appeared to be Alice Winfield's old and trusted friend. She'd told the secretary to tell Mr. Quinn that she was going to call his brother with the same information.

  Now she sat staring at the thick piece of linen-blend paper upon which Clay had jotted his brother's name and phone number, trying not to let herself be aware that the night before she'd shared this bed she was sitting on with Simon Hunt.

  He was a fabulous lover.

  Of course, she hadn't expected anything else. Lord knows, he'd had years and years of practice.

  She wearily rested her head in the palm of her hand, wishing she'd had the strength to allow herself to enjoy the pleasure of Simon's company for a little bit longer. But she didn't.

  He'd hardly batted an eye when she fed him that “it was only a one-night stand” nonsense. And if he looked at all perturbed, it was probably because she'd stolen his lines, damn him.

  “Ms. Paresky? This is Brad Quinn. Sorry to keep you waiting.” The voice on the line was deep and rich and familiar.

  “You sound a lot like your brother,” Frankie told him.

  “Same genes,” he said easily. “We look alike too. Both cute as hell.”

  “Who's older?” She couldn't resist asking.

  “He is. By about ten years. I assume you're calling for a reason?”

  “I found your aunt Alice's friend John.”

  “Glory allelu! We've got taxes coming due, and everyone benefits by settling the will ASAP,” Brad said. “Okay, I've got a paper and pen. Hit me with the details.”

  Frankie quickly filled him in.

  “You've made Clay and me very happy men,” Brad told her. “Our best-case scenario didn't have you finding John Marshall for another week and a half.”

  “The promise of a cash bonus was added incentive.”

  He chuckled. “I bet. We'll just need to verify Marshall's identity, and then we'll wire those funds directly to your bank. Send your bank information along with the invoice for your services.

  “I will.”

  “Oh, as long as I've got you on the phone,” Brad said, “maybe you could help me out. Ac cording to Alice's will, she's left me—personally— the contents of that house down on Sunrise Key.”

  Frankie sat up in surprise, trying to recall her conversations with Clay Quinn. She'd assumed that when he'd told her about the property on Pelican Street being left to John Marshall, that the contents of the house were included. Obviously, she'd been wrong.

  “I don't have time to go down to Florida right now, and I was wondering if you knew someone on the island who might be able to estimate the value—if there even is any—of the furniture in the house?”

  “Are you looking to sell it?” she asked.

  “Definitely,” he said. “And I guess I'll also need to make arrangements for someone to remove and dispose of all of Alice's personal belongings.”

  “I'd be happy to take care of that for you. Are you sure there's nothing there that you or your relatives would want? I know Alice kept extensive photo albums …. “

  “To be honest, I didn't know her that well,” Brad admitted. “And as far as your taking care of her personal effects, of course I'll pay you for your time.”

  “She was a friend of mine, Mr. Quinn,” Frankie said quietly.

  “But I insist. It's still going to take up quite a few of your workdays,” he replied. “And if you can think of anyone who can take a look at that furniture—”

  “Simon Hunt.” Frankie felt her heart ache just from speaking his name. “He's our local antiques dealer. I'll have him give you a call this afternoon.”

  “Perfect,” Brad Quinn said. “Oh, and, Ms. Paresky—good job.”

  Frankie hung up the phone, feeling nothing. Good job. Yeah, she'd done a good job, but she felt no pride, no sense of fulfillment. She felt no excitement about the ten-thousand-dollar bonus that would arrive in a matter of weeks. She felt nothing but emptiness.

  She missed Simon desperately.

  “Concierge. May I help you?”

  “Dom, is that you?” The voice on the other end of the telephone could have been Dominic Defeo's, but with that purebred accent, Simon wasn't quite sure.

  “It is, sir.”

  “It's me, Simon Hunt.”

  “Ah. And how did your evening go?”

  Simon was silent. At the time, he'd thought it had gone great. But not anymore.

  Dominic read his silence correctly. “Yes,” he said, “I thought as much.” His voice got lower, whis
pery, and the high-society accent disappeared. “Your lady friend is standing not three feet away from me at the front desk—checking out of the hotel. Without you, pal.”

  Simon swore sharply. “Now?”

  “Indeed, sir,” he said full voice, the accent firmly back in place. “I suggest you take action immediately.”

  Simon was already pulling on his shoes. “I'm on my way. Stall her for me, Dom, please?”

  “I assure you, sir, I'll do everything in my power to do just that.”

  “Bless you.”

  Simon stuffed his still-damp pants and shorts into his overnight bag, gathered his toothbrush and razor from the bathroom, grabbed his jacket from where he'd thrown it on the back of a chair, and was out the door in a flash.

  The elevator going down moved hellishly slowly, but he forced himself not to run as he stepped out into the lobby and headed toward the front desk. If Frankie was going to believe this was a chance meeting, he couldn't look as if he were chasing her.

  There she was.

  She was standing at the desk, travel bag over one shoulder, glancing impatiently at her watch. Dominic looked up and caught Simon's eyes, sending a silent message. Hurry.

  But Simon stopped to buy a paper at the newsstand. He opened it and pretended to be engrossed in the headlines as he stood in line at the hotel's front desk, waiting for the next available clerk to assist him.

  “The itemized receipt of your long-distance charges will be coming shortly,” he heard Dom tell Frankie. “I appreciate your patience.” He turned toward Simon. “In the meantime, may I help you, sir?”

  Simon folded the newspaper in half and stepped up to the counter, placing his key on its shiny surface. “I'd like to check out.”

  He sensed more than saw Frankie stiffen. She saw him. She knew he was there.

  He turned toward her slowly, then did a double take as if he were surprised to see her. “Hey.” He forced himself to relax, to smile, to play it cool as he leaned back on one elbow on the hotel's front desk.

  She nodded once, looking away, and Simon felt a stab of pain. How could she act so cold, so detached? Man, the things they'd done and the heat they'd created together the night before had been off the scale. How could she make love to him like that and then turn around and feel nothing in the morning?