The Kissing Game (16 page)

“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.

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, whispery, 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?

What was he doing here? Why was he even bothering to try to change her mind? Clearly, it was a losing battle ….

Dominic placed a form on the counter in front of Frankie and handed her a pen. “One more signature, please, madam.”

She picked up the pen and dropped it.

That was when Simon saw her hands.

They were shaking.

Whatever she was feeling, it wasn't the nothing that she'd carefully pasted onto her face.

It was enough to give him hope.

“What time does your flight leave?” he asked.

She looked up as if she were surprised, as if
she'd forgotten he was standing there. “Oh,” she said. “A little bit after one.”

“Mine too,” Simon lied. He didn't even have a ticket. But he was going to be on that one o'clock flight to Florida if it was the last thing he did. He smiled at her. “Great. We can share a cab to the airport.”

A flash of panic filled her eyes as she stared at him, and again he felt a surge of hope. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she considered and rejected all the ways she might possibly turn down his offer. But she could find no plausible reason why they
shouldn't
share a cab.

“Congratulations,” Simon said. “Am I right to congratulate you? Did you find John Marshall?”

Frankie nodded. “I also found out that Clay Quinn's brother, Bradford, was bequeathed the contents of the Pelican Street house. He wants to sell everything—I told him you'd give him a call.”

He pulled her into his arms. “That's fabulous news, Francine.” She held herself stiffly, away from him, but when he brushed his lips across her cheek, he felt her tremble. He looked down, and
for one heart-stopping second he saw an echo of last night's molten heat in her eyes.

He wanted to hold her even closer, to cover her lips with his own and kiss her until she melted, until she couldn't deny that what they'd experienced had been life-changing. But she pulled out of his grasp, searching through her purse. “Let me give you Brad Quinn's phone number …. “

“No rush,” he told her. “I'll get the number from you later.”

She gave him an incredulous stare. “This is why you came all the way to Boston,” she said. “To get your hands on that antique furniture. And now you say there's no rush?”

Simon lowered his voice. “I didn't come to Boston to guarantee a furniture deal. I came to be with you. I came in case you needed me.”

I do need you, Simon.
He could see Frankie's words from the night before reflected in her wide brown eyes. She was remembering, as clearly as he was, the way she'd clung to him.

“I'm okay now,” she told him, her voice just as soft.

“Are you?”

“Yes.” She turned abruptly away from him,
toward Dominic, suddenly businesslike and brisk. “Am I finished here?”

Dom nodded, flashing Simon a look. “You too, sir. Good luck, sir.”

How could she deny that her life hadn't been unconditionally altered by the love they'd shared the night before? How could she pretend that her entire world hadn't been turned upside down and inside out? Simon wanted to grab her and shake some sense into her. Instead, he forced himself to relax, to smile.

Frankie wanted him to disappear. She couldn't have been more clear about that if she'd told him bluntly to get lost.

But he wasn't going to do that. In fact, he was going to do his best to be very un-lost.

She hadn't been honest when she'd told him she wanted nothing more than a one-night stand. He
had
to believe that. And sooner or later she wasn't going to be able to keep up this facade of disinterest and he was going to find out how she
really
felt.

He had both patience and time.

She didn't stand a chance.

He hoped.

It was the airline flight from hell.

Frankie closed her eyes, but that didn't help. Simon was sitting inches away from her. Even with her eyes closed, she could smell the unforgettable ghostly scent of his cologne. She could hear him unconcernedly turning the pages of the paperback book he'd picked up at the airport. She could sense his presence with every prickling, tingling inch of her body.