Playing the Game

Playing the Game

By

Stephanie Queen

Kindle Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Stephanie Giancola

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Praise for Playing the Game
:

“If you're a fan of fast paced contemporaries,
Playing The Game
delivers one heck of a story”

Storm Goddess Book Reviews

“A refreshing and fun romance story that swept my off my feet.”

I Just Wanna Sit Here and Read

Praise for Stephanie Queen’s
Between a Rock and a Mad Woman
:

“Absolutely delightful”

RomanticLoveBooks.com

“I was riveted! The twists, turns, surprises & the love story that resulted were outstanding and I can’t wait to read more”

HesperiaLovesBooks.com

Praise for Stephanie Queen’s
The Throwbacks
:

“Boston comes vividly alive in the first of Queen’s Scotland Yard Exchange Program series. Grace is an engaging heroine with charm, humor and sass. Resplendent in rich detail, laugh-out-loud moments, a fast-paced plot and spellbinding characters,
The Throwbacks
is a stellar not-to-be-missed standout!”

Romantic Times Book Review

Chapter 1

“Damn it,” Roxanne muttered. Her drink had splashed on her dress. The crowd was dense. Looking right, and then left, at the partygoers around her, she took a surreptitious glance down to inspect the damage.

A very large, dark, wet spot spread over her left breast. Luckily it was only ice water.
Or maybe not so lucky, on second thought
. She watched in horror as the red silk material clung to her skin.

“Double damn. My nipple is showing!” This time she forgot to keep her comment under her breath.

“Now that I’d like to see.” The man appeared from nowhere, towering beside her. He watched her reflection in the floor to ceiling window.

The heat of embarrassment ignited her face. The man was no gentleman. Her embarrassment turned to anger in a flash. She jutted her breast out for him to see.

“You can
look
all you want,” she dared, wanting to shift the discomfort to him.

She thought she’d succeeded, until the signature dimpled half-grin split his face.

“I’m Barry Dennis.” He held out his free hand for her to shake. He held a bottle of beer in the other. The famous lopsided smirk remained in place.

“Must be my lucky night.” She ignored his hand.

He laughed.

Biting her lip, she reminded herself to behave professionally. He was the star attraction at this gala and they were both there to raise money for a good cause.

“I’m Roxanne Monet.” She shook his hand. She eyed him, wondering if he’d dare to say something about her nipple.

“I know who you are. I watched you get fired from your job at the TV studio a few days ago. You were supposed to interview me.” Unrestrained amusement shone in his eyes now and his grin widened. She was really starting to dislike this guy.

“I was only fifteen minutes late.”

“I only had ten.”

He still smiled, but it was no joke to her.

“They didn’t fire you because of me,” he said. His gaze dropped to her still-erect nipple.

Heat returned to her body, but it wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was anger. Especially since he was right about her job.

“I got some bad press recently. The studio brass was nervous and I was expendable.” No need to hide the truth. It was all over the news. No need to go into the details either.

“I never did schedule another interview.” He took a swig of beer.

“Hank—the producer—must have loved that.” She resisted the urge to fold her arms over her breasts as he continued to stare. She had started it. She had to see it through. The nipple refused to soften.

“Hank expressed his disappointment. I was disappointed that you wouldn’t be the one asking the questions. I was looking forward to a confrontation.” He stopped and took a handkerchief from his tux pocket and handed it to her.

Maybe he wasn’t such a cad. Maybe his ‘too cool’ reputation was undeserved
. God knows she knew how unfair the press could be. Finding the real man behind the enigmatic superstar was supposed to be her job—when she had a job.

“Well here we are. Would you like me to ask you some probing questions?” She snatched the hanky from his hand and resigned herself to the task of blotting the spot on her left breast to hasten the drying process. It was tough to be cool and sophisticated while she dabbed at her nipple.

He laughed. “Give it your best shot.”

He was probably the happiest man in the world right now, Roxanne thought. The Irish-Catholic boy from Queens had grown up to be the MVP of the National Basketball Association for four years running. At age thirty-one, the six-foot-nine guard was an international superstar.

“What’s it like having all your dreams come true, Mr. Basketball Superstar?”

Barry paused and stared at her with that unnerving blue fire in his eyes. “It’s like being in Disneyland. You have to go home sometime.” He took a gulp of his beer. A more cynical smile now appeared.

“I can’t picture you turning into a pumpkin,” she said.

Barry chuckled.

“You don’t really think the fantasy will end when you leave basketball?” She couldn’t help the serious curiosity that mixed in with the seduction in her voice, as if she were asking the question of a lover and soul mate instead of a perfect stranger.

“I don’t know. I don’t think about it much. Everything I have, everything I am, is invested in the present—in basketball. I don’t think about what happens when they shut down Disneyland.” He took a longer gulp from his bottle.

“Maybe you’ll find Cinderella and carry her off to your castle.”

Barry remained silent for too long. Her pulse raced.

“Enough of the fantasy bull. I’m realistic enough to know when I’m being seduced by a woman like you.”

“It’s not bull. It’s a metaphor. And what kind of woman do you think I am anyway?”

“The kind of woman who is so sexy that she could have any man she wanted. Any time she wanted,” he whispered. His mouth twitched.

“That’s the problem. I don’t want just any man.”

He moved closer. Her pulse jumped to a racing pace. It had been so long since she’d flirted. A waiter came by and Barry dismissed him with a nod. Then he lowered his voice.

“Luckily, I like a challenge.”

“Oh?” She arched her brow. The buzz of the room around her faded. His ridiculous confidence sucked her in even though she knew fear drove her racing pulse at least as much as attraction.

“And I have to warn you…”

“I’m sure you do,” she cut in.

“I always play to win,” he said.

“That I knew.”

“You don’t play fair?”

“True.” She laughed.

“As long as I know the rules.”

“None at all,” she said.

“I’m used to that.”

“I’m experienced myself.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” He nodded.

“And where is that?” She tilted her head to look directly into his eyes. She felt an army of goose bumps pop. She worried what he might say.

“Into your past.”

It was worse than she thought. She wanted nothing to do with that subject. Not with him. Not now. She had too much to hide. She feared most that he might sense her anxiety underneath the practiced professional TV persona she showed him. What separated him from the rest of his peers was the single-minded intensity of his competitiveness, his indomitable drive to win. That made her think twice about whether or not to continue their flirtation before it became a game of seduction. He was headed into dangerous territory, asking about her past.

“So which game do you think turned the play-offs around?”

“Oh, we’re going to talk basketball now? I’d rather hear something about you. You already know my life story.”

“No, I don’t,” she told him. Everything she’d read only covered the obvious and the superficial. He protected his privacy.

“Basketball. One word says it all. That’s my life story.”

“An oversimplified version, I assume. Unless you were actually hatched out of a basketball?” She felt more at ease now, with him as the subject of conversation.

“I think my mother was beginning to wonder.” Barry’s voice faded and his thoughts seemed to carry him away. He took another long gulp of his beer.

Her curiosity was piqued. “Oh? And why is that?”

“When I was in high school I missed my father’s funeral because there was a basketball game I had to play.” He looked defiant. Yet that expression made him look almost vulnerable. “Hell, my father would have turned in his grave if I missed a game. I never did.”

“What did your mother think?”

He looked at her squarely and spoke. “My mother didn’t understand. What Irish-Catholic woman would? But she forgave me anyway. Before she died.” He raked his long fingers through his wavy dark hair, looking uncomfortable for a moment. “So, mystery lady, the only thing I know about you is your name—and that you used to be a talk show host before you were fired. Where do you live?”

The intensity of those blue eyes forced her to look away from him. This wasn’t the time or place—or the man—to start confessing her past. But she could answer his harmless question.

“I live in Marblehead Neck.”

“Wealthy community. On the ocean?”

She nodded. Maybe not so harmless a question.

“I should have guessed. The mystery woman with an oceanfront mansion, lots of money. She has it all—except a job.” He seemed amused.

She was not. She turned back to the window, withdrawing into her thoughts. That was another thing she did not want to discuss, her money—or her lack thereof. She should have been relieved that he hadn’t paid attention to the news. But he’d find out about her eventually if the media kept up their coverage.

“I bet you were born rich, one of those blue bloods with a family history and relatives in the Revolutionary War.”

“No, not even close. In fact, right now I’m broke and in hock up to my neck.” She felt compelled to set the record straight at the risk of prodding his curiosity. She looked around the room. She needed to check in with the caterer.

“For some reason, I’m not too worried about you.”

Roxanne snapped her head back up to look up at him, and sure enough he was smiling with that lopsided grin of his. And without sympathy. In that moment she decided she liked this man.

“What are you doing here tonight?” he asked.

“I’m running the show. I do volunteer charity work for Children’s Mercy

Hospital.”

“I’m impressed.”

“Good.”

“What else do you do with yourself?”

“Isn’t this enough?” She spread her hands to indicate the vast crowd all laughing and drinking and eating, because she had brought them together.

His stare was hard to meet. She could see why his peers found him such a fierce competitor.

“What about men?” he asked.

“What about them?” She answered without flinching. Miraculously.

“You must have quite a collection.”

“I used to.”

“Gave it up for Lent?” His smile quirked.

She shook her head, turning to the window once again. This is where she needed to draw the line. Barry shifted his weight to move closer. She wasn’t prepared to go any further with this flirtation no matter how intriguing she found him. The last thing she needed was more complications in her life. She wished he’d politely—or even not so politely—excuse himself now, and move on to some other woman at the party.

But he didn’t move on. She turned to look at him. He was looking at the hand she had raised to the window; the hand with the boulder of a diamond and a wedding ring.

“You’re married.”

He waited for her response without expression. She bowed her head, still unwilling to part with her story. Roxanne had put the rings back on her finger for this purpose.

“That’s a pretty important fact to leave out of your life story.”

The accusation in his voice was unmistakable. She could say nothing, but raised her head to meet the intense blue eyes without apology. He stared back, neither prompting any explanations from her, nor offering her a graceful way out. She knew they had been flirting. They both sensed the connection and the excitement. But she couldn’t let herself go further.

He simply walked away. She winced, imagining what he thought of her. He made no polite departing remarks and neither did she. She returned her stare to the streets of Boston below. She turned to see him disappear into the crowd, draining his bottle of beer.