Playing for Keeps (31 page)

“Hey, Erica.” Decker slipped his arm around her waist. “Let’s dance. Just to keep your cover story going.”

“What happened with the redhead?” she asked teasingly. “I’m pretty sure I saw her hand down your pants, so don’t bother lying.”

He flushed. “Yeah, these parties get wild. How’s John?”

“So happy. Bragging about you and your pass, obviously.”

“Right.” He hesitated, then shrugged off whatever he was about to say, reminding her instead they were supposed to be dancing.

• • •

After two more hours, she was ready to collapse, and could only imagine how it was for the guys who had battled it out on the field. She kept her eye on Johnny from afar and was thrilled that he was doing the same. Watching over her. Admiring her. Imagining that they were celebrating together despite the ocean of partygoers between them.

Finally he was at her side again, murmuring she should meet him outside, where a town car and driver awaited them. After promising to be there in a second, she hunted down her escorts to thank them. Luckily, they had each scored actual dates, and while they were sentimental enough to slobber over her, she knew the score—she was the big dog’s girl, and they would feel better knowing she was with him.

When she scampered into the car, her quarterback was all over her, and definitely would have gone too far if she hadn’t pleaded performance anxiety because of the driver. “We’ll have plenty of time when we get home,” she assured him breathlessly.

“More time than you think,” he agreed, arching a suggestive eyebrow.

She giggled. “What does
that
mean?”

“I was saving this for later, but Murf did something amazing,” he told her, grabbing her onto his lap and nuzzling her neck. “He called your boss and got you the next two weeks off.”

“What?”

“Well, not off exactly. But Caldwell agreed you could work remotely. So you can be here with me. Then Hawaii. Then we can figure out San Francisco. Maybe dress you like an elf so my family won’t get suspicious.”

She stared into his laughing eyes and demanded, this time more sharply, “Your agent called my boss? Without talking to
me
first?”

“Huh?” He winced. “Yeah, I see what you mean. But it went well, babe. Great, in fact. No more flying back and forth. Just you and me. From now till San Francisco.”

Still in shock, she slipped off his lap, then shook her head. “I don’t know what to say. Who does he think he is?” Moistening her lips, she dared to ask, “Did you know he was going to call him?”

“No. But it went well—”

“Stop
saying
that.”

He winced again. “You’re pissed? He knows you’ve been flying too much—”

“That’s because my job is in New York. And contrary to what you and Murf think, it’s more than just babysitting you. There are layouts and meetings and other accounts. Twelve-hour days. And I need to be on-site for
all
of it.”

“Babysitting me?”

“What would
you
call it? Banging you?”

“Geezus, Erica.”

“I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath. “I just need to think. To salvage this somehow.” The reality was sinking in as she imagined what Caldwell must have thought. After all her claims of professionalism. Her insistence on a harassment-free work zone.

And he had responded perfectly, saying:
Date him or don’t date him, I don’t give a rat’s ass.

The unspoken ending to that sentence being:
as long as you do your job.

Now she wanted to shack up with the talent for two weeks? And get paid to do it? As though her success really
was
founded on seduction? And the rest of it was just a big, convenient lie?

“I can’t be here,” she explained finally. “Can you ask the driver to take me to the airport?”

He stared at her. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“You’re right. It’ll be impossible to find a flight. Can you ask Murf to arrange something?”

“Yeah.” He exhaled sharply. “He’s in Dallas though, so he might not answer right away.”

“He’s full-service,” she reminded him softly.

“Right.” He activated the intercom and directed the driver to take them to the airport. Then he pulled out his cell phone and muttered, “Get me Murf.”

She wasn’t actually surprised when the agent answered on the second ring. “Hey, John! Congrats again. How’s the party?”

“Erica and I are on the way to the airport. She’s on speaker with us. And she’s pissed,” he added dolefully.

“Never mind that, Murf,” Erica interrupted. “Can you arrange transportation for me? Right away? Ideally, I’d like to be in Caldwell’s office at nine a.m. sharp. But anything close to that would be appreciated.”

When the agent was silent, Johnny explained. “I know you meant well, but you fucked up. Which means
I
fucked up. So make it right.”

“I’m on it,” Murf promised. “But trust me, Erica. The call went well.”

“So I’m told,” she drawled. “What was the best part? Where you guys agreed my highest use was keeping Johnny satisfied?”

“What?”

“Or maybe you had a good laugh about how I got the account in the first place? By banging him in a public bar?”

“Geez, Erica, I swear it wasn’t like that. Caldwell considers you a rising star. He used those very words.”

“I
earned
those very words. Through hard work. In the office, not in bed.” She took a deep breath. “It doesn’t matter. I know you meant well. So let’s not rehash it.”

“I’m scheduling a jet as we speak. It’ll be there in ninety minutes. And if you need me to call your boss—”

“No!” she and Johnny shouted in unison.

“Okay, okay.” Murf’s tone softened. “I’m truly sorry, Erica. If it means anything, it was a very professional discussion. Nothing like you’re imagining.”

“I’m sure it was.” She leaned back and closed her eyes while the two men wrapped up the conversation. Johnny sounded miserable, and she regretted that, knowing it wasn’t his fault. He had just won the biggest game of his career. Now he was headed for the Super Bowl. And instead of celebrating, he was being brutalized by an angry girlfriend.

On the plus side, maybe this would convince him once and for all that they were truly and fundamentally incompatible.

As for her? She was more convinced than ever.

• • •

When they got to the airport she asked him to stay in the car, but he stubbornly joined her at the curb, motioning for the driver to give him her carry-on bag and scram.

“You must be exhausted,” she told him sadly. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“And you’ll call me as soon as you talk to him?”

She nodded.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Of course.” She moistened her lips and returned his kiss sincerely. “I’d better get going.”

“Yeah.” He leaned in closer. “I love you, Erica.”

“I know. Don’t worry. Just get some sleep.”

“You too.” He kissed her again, his tongue invading her mouth, claiming it as though that simple act could change things between them. “I’m sorry, babe. But trust me, your boss isn’t an idiot. He sees what I see. You’ve got a gift. So it’ll go well. I promise you.”

“Thanks.” She touched his cheek, then raised the handle on her carry-on and hurried toward the wall of cold glass doors.

• • •

Murf had arranged access to a posh members-only hospitality lounge and she took advantage of it, hoping for a quiet spot where she could plan her approach with Caldwell. The old routine of showing up at his door and babbling just wouldn’t work this time, nor did she want to use it. She needed to act like an account executive, not a B-pooler trying to jump the line.

The lounge had four sections: a quiet room for a quick nap in semidarkness; a conversation/meeting area with teleconference capabilities; another spot with lounge chairs, couches, and big-screen TVs; and a bar.

As far as she could tell, she was the only patron on the premises. Still she opted for the bar. Armed with her laptop, she slid onto a bar stool and deviated from her usual drink order by asking for a martini with extra olives. Her plan was to nurse the drink but down the olives right away, since she hadn’t eaten in hours. Luckily there were bowls of pretzels and complimentary cheese trays everywhere, so she had a feeling she wasn’t going to starve.

And meanwhile, she worked on her outline. Rather than pleading ignorance, confusion or unfairness, she would take the high road this time and admit she had bungled things. No excuses, just a grim lesson learned.

Then she’d explain that she hadn’t known Murf was making the call, and would never have gone along with it, but in retrospect, she should have seen it coming. Johnny and Murf, to their credit, had worried that the constant flights were wearing her down. They thought they were helping her as well as Johnny. But the only help she really needed was from Steve and the other execs, and the only place she could get that was in New York.

She should have made that clearer to Johnny and Murf. Instead, she had allowed the lines to blur. She would never make that mistake again.

Above all, she wouldn’t mention the romantic or sexual component of this. It was irrelevant, wasn’t it? She was a football fan who had gained unprecedented access to the playoff games and she had taken advantage of that. Hardly a crime. Men did it all the time and didn’t apologize for it.

The approach needed work, but at least she felt better as she worked through the details. Taking the sex out of the discussion wouldn’t just make the meeting more professional, it would make it easier. For her
and
for Caldwell.

The bar sat on a raised platform that overlooked most of the seating areas and, as she made her plan, she noted an occasional burst of light and color from an unseen patron in a recliner chair that faced away from her. Curiosity finally won out and she shifted to a closer stool to get a better look. She still couldn’t see the man’s face, but watched in fascination as his fingertips flew over the surface of a large tablet computer unlike any she had seen. The color didn’t just pop, it actually jumped off the screen and hovered above it. Some sort of three-dimensional feature, she realized, dazzled.

The device was undoubtedly expensive, but she wanted one, and was willing to spend the contents of her special Scotland-trip savings account. Then she could hide away at her apartment, crying over Johnny and mourning the ruin of her career, escaping into this man’s magical world all the while.

Leaving her laptop on the bar with her drink, she wandered over, hoping to appear casual and nonthreatening as she approached the stranger. He was still in the shadows, but now she could see the device more clearly and was even more intrigued. The man didn’t appear to be an artist, and was struggling to blend an image of white clouds over blue sky with the words
Rori’s Splash Pad
.

“Excuse me,” she said softly. “I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

He looked up, wary. “Can I help you?”

She gave him a reassuring smile. “I saw you finger-painting over here and just had to ask. Where did you get your tablet? It’s awesome.”

“Finger-painting?” He chuckled. “I never thought of it that way. Would you like to try it?”

“Oh, my gosh, yes.” She pulled an ottoman over, sat down, and accepted the device eagerly. At first, she couldn’t quite make it work, but the controls were intuitive, and within seconds she could pull paint from an endless color chart and swipe it across the screen.

“How does this work?” she asked. “Do you know? It’s almost three-D.”

“You’re talented,” he murmured. “Are you an artist?”

“Sometimes. And I need to get
one of these. Oh, wow, look at
this
!” She streaked a rainbow across the pad then lifted her fingertips and watched the rainbow rise too. “How do they
do
this? And more important, how much does it cost?” She glanced up and grinned. “Sorry to be so nosy, but I’m in love.”

“So I noticed. Unfortunately, it’s not commercially available. It’s a prototype. A failed one, I’m sorry to say.”

“Failed?” She set it on her lap and stared at him, noticing for the first time that his face was familiar.

How had Bannerman said it? The face was familiar but she didn’t recognize it?

And then with a gasp, she did. “You’re Carlos Rorsch. Oh, my God, did you invent this?”

“My team did, yes.”

“You need to keep it hidden. I could see every movement from the bar. If I were an industrial spy, you’d be robbed.”

He laughed. “Let them try to develop it. I’ve given it three years, but it’s not practical, so it’s been scrapped.” His mood sobered. “The three-D effect is just a magnetic field. Less than one-sixteenth of an inch, but it creates the illusion of depth. We thought we had something, but it’s too expensive to be a toy, and too impractical for a professional environment. Except for artists like yourself.”

“I disagree. And even regular consumers would love it.”

“Again, it’s expensive to produce. And regular consumers want to—well, to consume art, not create it.”

Erica started to argue, then picked up the tablet again and dipped her fingertips in the paint. Then she covered the surface with fluffy white clouds on a streaky blue background.

“That’s wonderful.” He cleared his throat. “Let me show you how to access the fonts. Maybe you can add my daughter’s name. I’m giving this to her as a birthday gift.”

“She’ll love it. But please don’t abandon it.” She licked her lips. “I think you’re wrong. Consumers don’t just want to consume art, they want to create it. But they don’t have the tools. Isn’t that your hook? If you can finger-paint, you can create on our—what did you call it? Splash Pad?”

“That’s the working title.”

“I like it,” she admitted. “But it doesn’t quite capture the essence.”

“Who
are
you?” he demanded, his tone suddenly brisk.

“What? Oh, sorry! I’m Erica McCall. I own tons of your products and I covet the rest. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“You said you’re an artist—”