The Name of the Game

by Nora Roberts

  “Was I supposed to bring someone?”

  “No.” Where was his secretary, his assistant, his gofer? His current lover?

  “According to my instructions, all I needed was five changes. Casual. Will this do to start?”

  She studied the navy crewneck and the buff-colored slacks as though it mattered. “You look fine.”

  She’d known who he was all along, Sam thought. He wasn’t so much annoyed as curious. And she wasn’t comfortable with him now. That was something else to think about. Making a woman comfortable wasn’t always a goal. After reaching for a mint himself, he rested a hip against the dressing table. It was a move that brought him just a little closer. Her lipstick had worn off, he noticed. He found the generous and unpainted shape of her mouth appealing.

  “I watched the tape you sent.”

  “Good. You’ll have more fun if you’re familiar with the format. Make yourself comfortable.” She spoke quickly but not hurriedly. That was training. But she wanted out, and she wanted out now. That was instinct. “One of the staff will be along to take you to Makeup.”

  “I also read credits.” He blocked the door in an offhand way. “I noticed that a Johanna Patterson is executive producer. You?”

  “Yes.” Damn it, he was making her jittery. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been able to make her nervous. Cool, controlled and capable. Anyone who knew her would have given that description. She glanced deliberately at her watch. “I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat, but we’re on a schedule.”

  He didn’t budge. “Most producers don’t hand-deliver contracts.”

  She smiled. Though on the surface it was sweet, he saw the ice underneath and wondered at it. “I’m not most producers.”

  “I won’t argue with that.” It was more than attraction now, it was a puzzle that had to be solved. He’d managed to resist any number of women, but he’d never been able to resist a puzzle. “Since we missed lunch before, how about dinner?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m—”

  “Booked. Yeah, so you said.” He tilted his head just a bit, as if to study her from a new angle. It was more than the fact that he was used to women being available. It was the fact that she seemed bound and determined to brush him off, and not very tactfully. “You’re not wearing any rings.”

  “You’re observant.”

  “Involved?”

  “With what?”

  He had to laugh. His ego wasn’t so inflated that he couldn’t take no for an answer. He simply preferred a reason for it. “What’s the problem, Johanna? Didn’t you like my last movie?”

  “Sorry. I missed it,” she lied, smiling. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a show to see to.”

  He was still standing at the door, but this time she brushed past him. And against him. Both felt a jolt, unexpected and tingling.

  Annoyed, Johanna kept walking.

  Intrigued, Sam kept watching.

  She had to admit, he was a pro. By the middle of the taping of the first show, Sam had gotten in a casual and very competent plug for his new miniseries No Roses for Sarah. So effective, that Johanna knew she’d tune in herself. The sponsors and the network brass would be delighted. He’d charmed his partner, the mother of two from Columbus, who had walked onto the set so tense that her voice had come out in squeaks. He’d even managed to answer a few questions correctly.

  It was hard not to be impressed, though she worked at it. When the lights were on and the tape was rolling he was the embodiment of that elusive and too often casually used word: star. John Jay’s posturing and flashing incisors shifted to the background.

  Not all entertainers were at ease in front of a live audience. He was. Johanna noted that he was able to turn on just the right amount of enthusiasm and enjoyment when the cameras were rolling, but also that he played to the studio audience during breaks by joking with his competitor and occasionally answering a question someone shouted out at him.

  He even seemed to be genuinely pleased when his partner won five hundred in cash in the bonus speed round.

  Even if he was just putting on a good face, Johanna couldn’t fault him for it. Five hundred dollars meant a great deal to the mother of two from Columbus. Just as much as her moment in the sun with a celebrated heartthrob.

  “We’ve got a very tight game going here, folks.” John Jay smiled importantly at the camera. “This final question will determine today’s champion, who will then go to the winner’s circle and try for ten thousand dollars. Hands on your buzzers.” He drew the card from the slot on his dais. “And the final question, for the championship, is . . . who created Winnie the Pooh?”

  Sam’s finger was quick on the trigger. The woman from Columbus looked at him pleadingly. John Jay called for a dramatic silence.

  “A. A. Milne.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a new champion!”

  As the cheers got louder and his partner threw her arms around his neck, Sam caught Johanna’s look of surprise. It was easy to read her mind and come up with the fact that she didn’t see him as a man who could read and remember storybooks—especially not classic children’s books.

  John Jay said the official goodbyes to the accountant from Venice and broke for a commercial. Sam had to all but carry his partner to the winner’s circle. As he settled back in his chair, he glanced at Johanna.

  “How’m I doing?”

  “Sixty seconds,” she said, but her voice was friendlier because she saw he was holding his partner’s hand to calm her.

  When the minute was up, John Jay managed to make the woman twice as nervous as he ran down the rules and the possibilities. The clock started on the first question. They weren’t so difficult, Sam realized. It was the pressure that made them hard. He wasn’t immune to it himself. He really wanted her to win. When he saw she was beginning to fumble, he blanked out the lights and the camera the way he did during any important scene. The rules said he could answer only two questions for her. Once he did, letting her keep her viselike grip on his hand, she was over the hump.

  There were ten seconds left when John Jay, his voice pitched to the correct level of excitement, posed the last question. “Where was Napoleon’s final defeat?”

  She knew it. Of course she knew it. The problem was to get the word out. Sam inched forward in the impossibly uncomfortable swivel chair and all but willed her to spit out the word.

  “Waterloo!” she shouted, beating the buzzer by a heartbeat. Above their heads, 10,000 began to flash in bold red lights. His partner screamed, kissed him full on the mouth, then screamed again. While they were breaking for a commercial, Sam was holding her head between her knees and telling her to take deep breaths.

  “Mrs. Cook?” Johanna knelt down beside them and monitored the woman’s pulse. This wasn’t the first time a contestant had reacted so radically. “Are you going to be all right?”

  “I won. I won ten thousand dollars.”

  “Congratulations.” Johanna lifted the woman’s head far enough to be certain it was merely a case of hyperventilation. “We’re going to take a fifteen-minute break. Would you like to lie down?”

  “No. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Cook’s color was coming back. “I’m all right.”

  “Why don’t you go with Beth? She’ll get you some water.”

  “Okay. I’m fine, really.” Too excited to be embarrassed, Mrs. Cook managed to stand, with Johanna taking one arm and Sam the other. “It’s just that I’ve never won anything before. My husband didn’t even come. He took the kids to the beach.”

  “You’ll have a wonderful surprise for him,” Johanna said soothingly, and kept walking. “Take a little breather, then you can start thinking about how you’re going to spend that money.”

  “Ten thousand dollars,” Mrs. Cook said faintly as she was passed over to Beth.

  “Do you get a lot of fainters?” Sam asked.

  “Our share. Once we had to stop taping because a construction worker slid right out of his seat during the
speed round.” She watched a moment longer until she was satisfied Bethany had Mrs. Cook under control. “Thanks. You acted quickly.”

  “No problem. I’ve had some practice.”

  She thought of women fainting at his feet. “I’ll bet. There’ll be cold drinks and fresh fruit in your dressing room. As long as Mrs. Cook’s recovered, we’ll start the tape in ten minutes.”

  He took her arm before she could move away. “If it wasn’t my last movie, what is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “All these little barbs I feel sticking into my heart. You have a problem with me being here?”

  “Of course not. We’re thrilled to have you.”

  “Not we. You.”

  “I’m thrilled to have you here,” she corrected, wishing he didn’t make it a habit to stand almost on top of her. Her low heels brought her eyes level with his mouth. She discovered it wasn’t the most comfortable view. “This series of contests, like your movie, will be shown during the May sweeps. What could be better?”

  “A friendly conversation, over dinner.”

  “You’re persistent, Mr. Weaver.”

  “I’m puzzled, Ms. Patterson.”

  Her lips very nearly twitched. There was something cute about the way he drawled her last name. “A simple no shouldn’t puzzle a man who obviously thinks so well on his feet.” Deliberately she looked at her watch. “Half your break’s up. You’d better change.”

  ***

  Because things ran smoothly, they were able to tape three shows before the dinner break. Johanna began to have fantasies about finishing on time. She kept them to herself, knowing how easy it was to jinx success. The dinner spread wasn’t elaborate, but it was plentiful. Johanna didn’t believe in pinching pennies over such minor matters as food. She wanted to keep her celebrities happy and her contestants at ease.

  During the break she didn’t sit, but grabbed a plate and a few essentials and kept herself available. The audience had been cleared, and new ticketholders would be allowed in for the two final tapings. All she had to do was avoid any crises, keep the energy level up and make certain John Jay didn’t proposition any of the females on set.

  With the first in mind, Johanna kept her eyes on the new challenger, a young woman from Orange County who appeared to be about six months pregnant.

  “Problem?”

  She’d forgotten that her other prerequisite had been to avoid Sam Weaver. Reminding herself to keep the celebrities happy, she turned to him as she plucked a small chilled shrimp from her plate. “No, why?”

  “You don’t relax, do you?” Without expecting an answer, he chose a slim carrot stick from her plate. “I’ve noticed you’re watching Audrey like a hawk.”

  She wasn’t surprised that he already knew the expectant mother by her first name. “Just being cautious.” She bit into the shrimp and unbent enough to smile at him. After all, the day was nearly over. “During one of my early shows we had an expectant mother go into labor in the winner’s circle. It’s not an experience you forget.”

  “What did she have?” he asked, testing.

  “A boy.” Her smile became more generous as her eyes met his. It was one of her best memories. “By the time she was halfway to the hospital the staff had a pool going.” She swallowed the last of the shrimp. “I won.”

  So she liked to bet. He’d keep that in mind. “I don’t think you have to worry about Audrey. She’s not due until the first part of August.” He caught Johanna’s curious look. “I asked,” he explained. “Now, can I ask you a question? Professional,” he added when he sensed her withdrawal.

  “Of course.”

  “How often do you have to wind John Jay up?”

  She had to laugh, and she didn’t bother to object when he snitched a cube of cheddar from her plate. “Wind down’s more like it. He’s harmless, really. Only he thinks he’s irresistible.”

  “He told me the two of you were . . . cozy.”

  “Really?” She glanced briefly over in the show’s host’s direction. The haughty look was so casual and innate that Sam grinned. “He’s also an optimist.”

  He was glad to hear it. Very glad. “Well, he does his job. Somehow he manages to hit the note between cheerleader and father confessor.”

  Covering her personal opinion with her professional one was an old habit. To her, entertainment was first and last a business. “Actually, we’re lucky to have him. He hosted another show about five years back, so he’s not only familiar but also has a strong appeal to the home viewer.”

  “Are you going to eat that sandwich?”

  Without answering, Johanna took half of the roast-beef-and-Swiss and handed it to him. “Are you enjoying yourself so far?”

  “More than I’d expected.” He took a bite. So she had a taste for hot mustard. He was fond of spice himself, and in more than food. “Will you be offended if I tell you I kicked a bit about doing it?”

  “No. I’m the first to admit that the show isn’t Shakespeare, but it serves its purpose.” Leaning against a wall, she watched one of the crew heap on a second helping. “What have you found appealing about it?”

  He avoided the obvious answer. Her. The one he gave was equally true. “I got a kick out of seeing those people win. Of course, I developed a soft spot for Mrs. Cook. Why do you do it?”

  She avoided several possible answers. The one she settled on was true enough. “I enjoy it.” When he offered her his glass of sparkling water and lime, she accepted without thinking. She was relaxed, optimistic about the rest of the day and, though she didn’t realize it, comfortable in his company.

  “I hesitate to point this out, but it looks like we’re having dinner after all.”

  She looked at him again, slowly, gauging him and her reaction to him. If she’d had a different background, different memories, fewer disillusionments, she would have been flattered. More, she would have been tempted. He had a way of looking at her as though they were alone; as though, if they’d been in a room with hundreds of other people, he would have picked her, and only her, out.

  Trick of the trade, she told herself, disliking her own cynicism.

  “Isn’t it handy we got that out of the way?” She handed him back his glass.

  “Yeah. It should make it easier for us to do it again.”

  Casually she signaled to the crew to begin clearing up. “I don’t want to rush you, but we’ll start taping again in fifteen minutes.”

  “I never miss my cue.” He shifted his body just enough to prevent her from walking by him. He had the moves, Johanna thought. Very smooth. Very slick. “I get the impression you like to play games, Johanna.”

  There was a dare in his voice. She caught it, and was trapped. Though her voice was cool again, she stood her ground and met his gaze. “Depends on the stakes.”

  “Okay, how’s this? If I win the next two games you’ll have dinner with me. I set the time and the place.”

  “I don’t like those stakes.”

  “I haven’t finished. If I lose I come back on the show within six months. No fee.” That had her attention, he noted, pleased with himself. He hadn’t misjudged her dedication to her show or her weakness for a dare.

  “Within six months,” she repeated, studying him to assess whether he could be trusted. Not an inch, she decided, on many matters. But she didn’t see him as a man to welsh on a bet.

  “Deal?” He made his voice deliberately challenging as he held out a hand.

  It was too good a bet to turn down. His eyes were too mocking to ignore. “Deal.” She set her palm against his, then removed it and stepped away. “Ten minutes, Mr. Weaver.”

  Johanna had a very bad feeling when Sam and his teammate took the first game. Since the conception of the show, she’d had a strict personal policy against rooting for either side. It didn’t matter that no one could read her thoughts. She knew them, and prejudice of any kind was unprofessional. She certainly would never have imagined herself actually rooting against a certain
team. She did now.

  It was because she wanted him back on the show, she told herself when the last taping of the day began. The producer, not the woman, had made the bet. It was ridiculous to think that she was afraid, even uneasy, about having a meal with him. That would only be a small annoyance—like a spoonful of bad-tasting medicine.

  But she stood behind camera two and cheered inwardly when the opposing team took the lead.

  He didn’t show nerves. Sam was much too skilled an actor to show nerves in front of a camera. But they dogged him. It was the principle, he told himself. That was the only reason he was so determined to win and make Johanna pay the price. He certainly wasn’t infatuated. He’d been around too long to be infatuated just because a woman was beautiful. And aloof, his mind added. And contrary and stubborn. And damn sexy.

  He wasn’t infatuated. He just hated to lose.

  By the beginning of the final round, the two teams were neck