The Name of the Game

by Jennifer Dawson

  Shane pointed at the business card in her hand. “One cake for a very connected politician.”

  She waved her hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Before anyone could speak, a woman said from behind her, “Excuse me.”

  Gracie turned to see a refined woman in her forties standing there in a champagne cocktail dress.

  “Virginia, it’s lovely to see you again,” Cecilia said, putting her hand on her fiancé’s arm. “Shane, you remember Congressman Dalton’s wife.”

  Smooth as silk, Shane extended his hand. “Of course, always a pleasure.”

  Gracie would bet money Shane had no idea who the woman was, but no one would ever guess. That’s why they were a great couple. Shane and Cecilia complemented each other and made it look effortless.

  Gracie’s attention slipped to James. The two women he’d been talking to earlier had joined him and Charlie. Her stomach twisted with jealousy. Who were they?

  Over the strawberry-blonde’s head, James looked up and caught her gaze. Instant heat. Her lower belly jumped. With a hard swallow, she turned back to the conversation.

  “Congratulations on your engagement,” Virginia said, then turned to Gracie. “Did I hear you made this cake?”

  Chapter Seven

  Gracie sat in the car in front of James’s townhouse, heart pounding so hard she feared it might burst from her ribs. What in God’s name was she doing?

  After the party, she’d gone back to Shane and Cecilia’s, and as everyone retired to their separate rooms, she’d paced the floors like a caged animal.

  All night their gazes had locked across the room, over and over again, like some sort of magnetic force had drawn them.

  Then, somewhere mid-pace, the solution dawned on her. So simple and straightforward it about slapped her in the face.

  Sex.

  She’d been looking at it in the wrong light. If she slept with him the tension would break and all this angst would be over. A one-time deal would get them over the hump, and take care of the awkwardness of their newfound truce. With all the heat they’d generated all evening she’d forgotten one very important fact: they were fundamentally incompatible. She preferred her sex wild, impulsive, and dirty. Three words that in no way described James. He was just too . . . neat and controlled. And really, the man didn’t eat cupcakes, so how crazy could he be? The way she figured it, he probably had a set routine:

  Kissing—seven minutes, twenty-five seconds.

  Foreplay—subsection A: nipples. Five minutes on each side.

  Foreplay—subsection B: clitoris. Two minutes of gentle stroking followed by light, circular pressure.

  He’d be methodical and plodding, as he was with everything else. Even if he was decent in bed, it wouldn’t be her preference, and he’d be off the hook. The more she’d thought about it, the more convinced she became it was the solution to this fiasco. Sleep with him and the tension would be over.

  They could have a good laugh at how unmatched they were, and she could finally treat him like every other guy.

  It was easy as cherry pie. She’d stolen his information from Cecilia’s contact list on her computer and snuck out of the house without a backward glance.

  Only now, sitting in front of his house, nerves bouncing in her stomach, she seriously questioned her sanity.

  This was the only solution that made sense. She yanked the key out of the ignition. She was taking action. Come morning, her dry spell would be over, and she’d have Professor James Donovan out of her system once and for all.

  The last person James expected to see standing at his front door at half past midnight was Gracie. Maybe he’d finally gone off the deep end and he’d started hallucinating? He blinked but she was still there on his stoop. Standing there in all her spectacular glory in the red dress that had taunted him all evening.

  “Gracie?” He opened the door wider and took a step back.

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, shifting on the balls of her feet, then pointed at the doorway. “May I come in?”

  What could she possibly be doing here? With the way things had gone between them tonight, he half expected her never to talk to him again. He waved her into the foyer. “Yes, of course.”

  She squared her shoulders, then marched past him. A woman on a mission.

  A small smile quivered at his lips. “This is an unexpected surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  She dropped a large purse on the leather bench and swung around, planting her hands on her generous hips. Her Playboy-worthy breasts jiggled in the silky material of her strapless dress. He’d been trying all night to figure out how the dress stayed up when it appeared as though one crook of his finger would send the fabric sliding to the floor.

  She blew out a breath, sending a curl flying. “I’ve been thinking about this truce of ours, and it’s not working.”

  He closed the door, blocking out the cool night air. He couldn’t argue with her there. “Maybe we just need time.”

  A frown marred her full mouth. “I want things to be normal.”

  “What’s normal?”

  “With you?” She gestured at him like he exasperated her to her wits’ end. “I have no clue. But I’ve had it.”

  The evening’s turn of events clearly had her on edge, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. The sharp arousal had driven him crazy, inducing him to fantasies of yanking her into some dark closet. “Had what?”

  “I’ve had enough of this.” She waved her hand around wildly in the space between them.

  Despite his best intentions he felt a smile twitching at his lips, which he quickly repressed into a firm line. An evil part of him wanted to toy with her, to pretend confusion, but she seemed too agitated. And that response would be inappropriate, designed to provoke and tease, which wouldn’t help their current predicament. “Maybe it’s not possible for us to be friends, but I think we haven’t given it enough time.”

  She covered her face with her hands and hung her head. “What am I doing?”

  He itched to go to her but didn’t dare. They were a powder keg waiting to explode and it was better not to add spark to the detonator. “Maybe we need to start with the basics.”

  “How?”

  He smiled, hoping to put her at ease. “I’ve seen you with other men. So go ahead, start flirting. Dazzle me with your smile and sweetness.”

  “You’re impossible!” She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, as though trying to keep from punching him in the face.

  “Too much, too soon?” He carefully studied her, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

  “I’m serious!” She pressed her fingertips to her temple. “Argh, this is so frustrating! This isn’t going the way I planned. Which is pretty much par for the course with you, Professor.”

  It struck him how often he’d felt the same way about her. He always had the best intentions, but they never worked once he got in the same room with her. He gave her a wry smile. “I can relate.”

  She sucked in a breath that expanded her chest and her hands fell to her sides. “I’ve been thinking about this all night and I don’t see a lot of options other than to spit it out.”

  “Please do,” he said, without the foggiest clue where this would lead.

  She seemed to contemplate for several long moments before drawing in another deep breath. “It seems like there’s something between us, even though we don’t want it there.”

  He nodded. “Yes, there is.”

  That seemed to bolster her confidence and she stood straighter, her chin tilted. “I think we should deal with it, once and for all.”

  “And what do you propose?” he asked, both dreading and anticipating the answer.

  “I don’t see any other way to solve the problem. As you pointed out, our lives are only becoming more entwined. But I think there’s too much tension. We need to fix it. . . .” Expression stormy, she shook her head. “Deal with the source of the problem.”

  James couldn’t
argue with her logic. He raised a brow. “And how to you propose we do that?”

  That stubborn, wayward curl flopped over one eye and he clenched his hands to keep from tucking it behind her ear. A moment later she pushed it away and squared her shoulders. “I think we need to hit the sheets. Like a Band-Aid, rip it right off.”

  He just stood there, staring at her like a big dope.

  This whole mess made Gracie twitchy.

  Still, he said nothing.

  Feeling defensive, she planted her hands on her hips and demanded, “Well?”

  Adam’s apple bobbing, James swallowed hard. The muscles in his forearms flexed, and the veins running up his wrists momentarily distracted her, before she managed to refocus.

  He shook his head, as though waking himself from a stupor. He stepped back, gesturing toward the open expanse of his house. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

  From the foyer she craned her neck to peer into the place he called home. The loft had timber rafters, rich, wide-planked hardwood floors, and fifteen-foot ceilings. It was decorated with warm browns, reds, and greens. The professor was cold and controlled; everything should be gunmetal gray and industrial. It should not be warm, lush, and inviting.

  The disparity between her expectations and reality made her uneasy. Heart rate kicking up a notch, she resisted taking a step back and escaping through the front door. “For what?”

  Behind those black wire frames, his cool, evergreen eyes narrowed. “Should I just take you against the wall and send you on your way?”

  A flash of heat, followed by a trickle of ice, slid down her spine. Well, fine, if he wanted to be all calm and collected about this transaction, so be it. She squared her shoulders and held her chin high. “I apologize. Lead the way.”

  He frowned but said nothing, leading her into the big open space.

  The room was even better than it had looked from the foyer, and his view from his great room was breathtaking, with large bay windows overlooking the Chicago skyline. And his kitchen. She shivered. Open and connected to the main living area, it was a cook’s dream, and she couldn’t resist running her fingers over the cool marble. “This isn’t what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?” His voice was as smooth as the river that ran behind her house on a day with no breeze.

  Someone had gotten his composure back.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t her. She wanted to put on her normal facade, or at least say something to throw him off-balance, but the truth was, nerves got the better of her. Which irritated her. Sex didn’t make her nervous. She put her hand on her belly. “I expected more industrial and sleek.”

  “I don’t like closed-in spaces or cold metal.” He walked over to the fridge, stained to match the dark wood cabinets. “Would you like something to drink?”

  She fought an urge to snap at him, for no other reason than he acted like she’d suggested a walk by the lake instead of a night of hot sex. Bound and determined to rectify this situation, she refused to give in to temptation. The professor wasn’t the only one with discipline. She cleared her throat. “Water is fine, thank you.”

  He opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water, a small smile curving the corners of his mouth. “Don’t go getting all civil on me now, Gracie. I’m not sure I can take it.”

  She snatched the bottle from his hands. “You get irritated at me for being irrational, but when I’m polite you criticize. There’s no pleasing you.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I was teasing.”

  “Ha!” She flounced over to the chocolate couch and plopped down onto it, biting back a moan. It was even more comfortable than it looked, the suede butter soft against her bare skin. Pure heaven. She could roll around on this couch for days, but she stayed upright, crossing her legs. “We both know you don’t have a sense of humor.”

  He shook his head, walked to the camel-colored club chair, and sat down. He crossed his legs at the ankles and laced his fingers over a stomach that should be declared illegal. “I assume you’re nervous and thus will excuse your rudeness.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. Calm. She needed to be calm. All this pent-up sexual energy messed with her brain. Once they got this over with she’d be back to normal. She was sure of it. Then they could get on with the business of being friends.

  He sat across from her, looking more likely to go to sleep than make a move on her.

  She sighed. Now that her decision was made, she was antsy to get it over with. She glanced meaningfully at the open staircase that most likely led to his bedroom. “Can we just get on with it?”

  “Do you have somewhere you need to be?” he asked.

  Most men would have pounced on her the second she’d made her offer, but not the professor. Although, she could look at his lack of action in a positive light, as it confirmed she’d been right about the way he took his sex. “No, I just don’t want to waste any more time.”

  He was silent for several long moments before his head cocked to the side. “I’m not sure how sleeping together is a viable solution.”

  God, couldn’t he understand how on edge she was? She threw up her hands. “Why can’t you be a normal guy? I’m offering you sex. Can’t you just take it and quit talking about it?”

  He raised a brow. “If I was just a normal guy and you were just an ordinary woman, we wouldn’t be in this situation, now would we?”

  The silence stretched out between them like an endless chasm. The heat permeated the air until it felt thick and humid. Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and blew out a hard breath. “I suppose there’s truth to that.”

  She braced herself for some sort of smugness, but he leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees, calling to attention the wide expanse of his broad shoulders and hard cut of his jaw. “While there’s always been attraction between us, this tension is new. What is wrong with talking it through?”

  A splash of heat spread over her chest. He’d said it out loud. There’d be no pretending it didn’t lurk between them now. A silly notion considering she’d just propositioned him for sex, but she’d made that sound more like scratching an itch. More about taking one for the greater good of the team. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you want to discuss.”

  “How about the fact that we rub each other the wrong way? How we’re entirely different people? How we’re going to have to see each other for the next fifty years?”

  All good questions if she’d proposed dating, but she hadn’t. “I’m not suggesting we get married. I’m suggesting we have sex one time so we can move on to our truce.”

  “I think your way has consequences we need to examine.” Voice calm, he sat there with his fingers loosely clasped, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  This conversation made her head ache and she pressed a fingertip against her temple. What kind of guy examined the consequences of sex? You offered. They took. Easy. Only James made it complicated. She drained half her water, wishing for something stronger, before putting it on the coffee table between them. She sighed. “We already have a terrible relationship. It will only help.”

  “And how do you figure that?”

  Exasperated, she let out a little screech. This conversation was exactly what drove her crazy about him. “For the love of God, it’s just sex. It won’t even be good sex. So let’s get it over with and go on our merry way.”

  His expression flashed before turning cool. He sat back in his chair and studied her in that level-eyed way he had. “What makes you think it won’t be good?”

  Okay, she needed to stop hoping to get a rise out of him. Most men rose to the challenge when their sexual prowess was questioned. But, of course, James didn’t play by those rules. No, James wanted to talk it out. She brushed imaginary lint from her dress. “Poor word choice on my part. I’m only suggesting we’ll be as incompatible at sex as we are at everything else.”

  He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair, rubbing his fingers in a slow motion, as
though contemplating something tactile. His lips quirked. “I see. I think this is becoming clear. So you’re assuming the mediocrity will cure the fixation.”

  “Well, maybe not mediocre.” Her belly heated. She thought of all those long, lust-filled glances. The desire skipping between them in the stairwell. Too hot to be truly horrible. “I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “I assure you, you’re mistaken.”

  Her breath caught in her chest. That sounded confident. She recalled the way Lindsey Lord had flirted up at him with adoration. Instinct told her to keep quiet, to change the subject, but her mouth ran away from her. “I’m sure you’re skilled. But I’m equally sure we won’t like things the same way.”

  “Do tell.”

  Was that amusement in his tone?

  She should back down, but a demented compulsion made her continue. “Well, come on, when’s the last time you had sex not in the missionary position?”

  Okay, the corners of his lips definitely quivered with contained mirth. What was so funny? She’d insulted him, for heaven’s sake.

  He rubbed a palm over his jaw. “What do you have against the missionary position?”

  She blew out a breath. “Nothing.”

  “So let me get this straight. If I’m reading between the lines, you want me to disappoint you sexually for the sake of the truce. Is that correct?”

  “Why do you have to put it like that?”

  “How would you like me to put it?”

  She crossed her arms and huffed. “Why are you making things difficult?”

  “Why do you always evade questions with more questions?”

  Unable to sit still a moment longer, she flew off the chair, sexual frustration and exasperation building like a pressure cooker inside her. She lapped around the room while he sat quietly in the chair, watching her with that intense expression of his.

  Screw this. She stalked over to stand in front of him. “Look, are we going to fuck or not?”

  His gaze traveled over her body at a slow, leisurely pace. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

  She crossed her arms over her ample chest to cover the rapid tightening of her nipples. “Don’t even try to pretend it’s a hardship.”