The Passion Play (5 page)

She got hot all over, but she kept on dancing; kept on looking at him, smiling at him. And she considered it. She considered him, thinking of the times she had talked with him.

There was a boyish quality to him. He was earnest and hesitant, charmingly polite. She liked him. He played well, was a good team m
ember. Dan approved of that. He had called Luke dependable, with good instincts and a feel for the game. 'Always where he's supposed to be,' was the phrase he had used.

She recall
ed no other gossip about him and she did get to hear plenty about the players' shenanigans. People told her, either wanting to hear an insider's view, to spur a return of gossip, or hoping to shock her with something she had not yet heard.

No one had spoken of him. Whatever he got up to, he was discrete.

A vengeful woman would leap at the chance . . . but no, she was not vengeful. She would not do something in bad taste for the sake of embarrassing Dan.

But neither would she refrain from doing something she wanted to do just to save him from embarrassment.

She looked at Luke, smiled at him, danced with him, thought all these thoughts. She thought of a kiss and the grope on the dance floor, and got even hotter. Still she did not look away.

He moved so well, it was impossible not to imagine him moving in bed. She was surprised how graphically she could picture it. She had seen him with his shirt off before but not realized she had filed the picture away. She thought of lying beside him, under him, her bare chest against his; thought of those big hands of his on her; thought of looking up at his face as he lowered it to kiss her. She got wet thinking about it. Really, honestly, hot and wet.

She measured the space between them and hesitated. Even now, all warmed up by her own vivid fantasy, she still felt constrained. Like she was fenced in by rules. Like her choices were not her own to make, whether she would hold back or act as she pleased.

Oh, how she hated that. She hated that she – a grown woman – still acted like a child waiting for permission. She could do this. If she truly wanted to, she could close the gap between them, put her hands on him,
let him know she wanted him.

Silently the battle raged in her, between girlish propriety and womanly power. Between wanting and taking.

Stop thinking! Stop thinking and just do it! Do it!

She stepped forward.

She was right inside his space now, in the intimate air an inch away from his chest. She would have to tilt her head back to see his face. For a moment she was too shy. She stared at the top button on his shirt, open to show his collarbone, the bumps pressing against the skin. There she paused, gathering her courage.

There was no mistaking her proximity. He would know she was interested. She felt acutely vulnerable but she kept faith with herself,
lifted her gaze upwards, past his lush lips to his eyes. She took his stare and held it. His smile was gone now. Instead there was a burning intensity about him, like his focus was totally on her, every fiber of him oriented towards her.

It was dizzying. Her breath was sawing in and out of her,
labored. Her lips parted, her chest lifting towards his. She wanted him to put his arms around her. To close that final inch that fairly arced with electricity, the hum of it almost audible under the thumping music.

She swayed towards him, up on her toes, so certain he would reach for her. Then she touched him, full length, her breasts to his chest, thighs against his, an erection –
so hard, hard as wood – pressed into her stomach.

It was like a flash burn, the streak of heat from that point throughout her body; her instant response to the masculine message of it. She wanted to melt from it, ease around him, supple and yielding. To be gathered up and used with tender savagery. To take him into her, use him in turn. To reach for satisfaction of this ache, this emptiness.

He put his hands on her shoulders. Her lips fell open. He stared at them – parted for him – and she was sure he was about to lean forward, to take what she offered, to add himself to it and shape it into something infinitely fuller.

His hands steadied her. He stepped away.

For a long moment she stared at him, dazed by the power of her desire, uncomprehending.

Then it came to her like a hammer fist to the gut, driving the air from her lungs.

Rejection.

He did not want her.

He was shaking his head and mouthing something, his hands still grasping her shoulders, looking at her earnestly, frowning, willing her to understand whatever he was saying.

She could not focus. All the heat in her was shame now, a blazing anguish of it, to have read it wrong.

She was done.

She bared her teeth mechanically, nodded, trying to look casual, to hold herself together.
Nod, nod. Grin, grin. Pretend like it never happened, that moment when I stepped in close. Maybe it was a stumble. Maybe someone shoved me from behind. Pretend, pretend.

"I've
gotta go," she mouthed at him, her head bobbing. "See you later." She waved and stepped backwards, sideways, colliding until she found a space to fill, a person to slide behind, and another. Until he was gone, his frowning face eaten up by the crowd and she could turn and flee.

CHAPTER FOUR

The buzz of his alarm made him groan. It hadn't woken him. He'd barely slept. Just dozed and woke, dozed and woke again to lie staring at the ceiling in the darkness, reliving that strange hour at the club over and again, trying to sort out what had happened.

It made no sense.

What the hell was Felicity King doing in a nightclub alone at eleven pm, dancing with strangers?

What the
hell
was she doing dancing with him?

What the HELL was she doing wrapping her sweet body around him and driving him half out of his mind with want, letting him think she wanted him right back?

WHAT THE HELL?

It didn't fit that she would go into a nightclub hoping to pick up. Sure, people could hide all sorts of perversions under good manners, but if you watched them there were hints. There were always hints.

She didn't have a roving eye. She never had. She didn't check the players out, and if a woman was inclined, there was certainly a whole locker room of eye candy. He was prepared to swear he'd never seen her notice. Never seen her eyes linger on any man. Not even her husband, come to think of it.

There was no speculation in her eyes, no heat,
no curiosity. Just that steadiness. That clarity, like a drink of clean water.

That was Mrs Felicity King.

And if he'd read that wrong, if she'd somehow managed to hide a different nature, led a double life, why had she greeted him like she was so genuinely pleased to see him? There was nothing fake about that smile. She was delighted he was there. Not horrified she was found out, or trying to get away. Plain happy.

And
then
, even if it had been an act to fool him into thinking she was innocent, a successful act at that, she'd compounded his confusion by looking at him with exactly the speculation he'd never seen in her. She'd watched his body attentively, moved with it, in tune with it, in a way that told him loud as a shout they'd be good in bed and she was thinking exactly the same thing.

She looked at him and she smiled, and didn't look away, and she
thought
such things at him from behind her eyes she'd had him hard as a rock, trying to imagine what scorching pictures were playing on the screen inside her head.

He'd felt her body up against his for five long seconds, and even if the memory sent him straight to hell he didn't think he could forget the shape of it, small and soft and right. He'd wanted to scoop her up and carry her off somewhere hushed and private and wrap her in tenderness and conquer her and worship her and do such wicked things for her she'd scream and beg and he'd give her everything she wanted.

It had killed him to step away. He didn't know, reliving the moment, how he'd managed it. It sure as hell hadn't been his body that made that decision. Nor yet his mind, drowning in images of her, what he'd like to do with her and to her and for her.

"I can't. You're married."

He said it like some sort of robot, repeating the same words he'd told himself a thousand times looking at her.
I can't. She's married.

Then he waited for her to step back against him, knowing he'd expended every piece of his willpower, his
self control. Knowing he was hers to use just as she pleased.

But she nodded and smiled like that made perfect sense, and said she had to go and waved at him and left.
Like it was nothing. Like there was no problem. Like she hadn't just driven him completely, certifiably insane.

How the hell was he going to go to work today knowing any minute Mr King could walk by and he'd have to look at the man and remember what had happened in the club last night?

Even though he actually had
no freaking idea
what had happened in the club last night.

How could he do it? He groaned
once more and rolled over, taking the pillow with him to bury his head.

The alarm clock buzzed again.

It was an eight thirty am start at the stadium, with a busy morning to look forward to. Not ideal after so little sleep. He was in a daze through the meetings. By ten he was on the field in his sweats, doing walk-throughs with the rest of the team and trying to get the plays right rather than fumbling them; almost succeeding; not quite. There was a little eye rolling from those nearest him who apparently knew what he was supposed to be doing better than he did. He forced himself to concentrate harder on what was going on right here this moment. He knew this stuff. He'd practiced it all week already. This was just the dress rehearsal before the big game tomorrow. Luckily a home game, so he'd be able to have a quiet late afternoon, get an early night at the hotel and catch up on that sleep.

By tomorrow he'd better be in the zone. He'd be damned if he'd let this screw up his play.

This . . . this . . . whatever it was that had happened with Felicity King that damned well should not have happened and would never happen again.

Then he saw Dan King.

For a long instant he thought the blond snuggled up to him was her – Felicity – and he froze.

But no, she moved wrong. She was a little . . . bustier. Her hair was more golden than Felicity's silver-blond. And the face . . . pretty but not the same. There was some resemblance though. Enough that along with her evident familiarity with Mr King, Luke wondered if this was a sister or cousin, some relative.

"
Barrett
," came the snarled whisper from behind him, and he twitched and then sidled where he was supposed to be in the offensive play, breathing in the scent of crushed grass, keeping his eyes front and center and trying to think himself into the practice, to fix these positions in his head before tomorrow.

It was a long forty minutes.

At the end once they'd broken up Big Joe came to stand beside him, slow-footed and solemn. "Better get it right tomorrow," he said in his soft way, an expert at getting his point across without aggression.

"Yeah.
I know. Couldn't sleep last night. Can't think straight today," Luke said, an acknowledgment and almost an apology.

"Get a good one tonight then, eh?" Big Joe confirmed with a nod.

"You bet."

Big Joe clapped him casually on the shoulder and wandered away.

Released from duty he pretended to be stretching, giving him time to scan the stands for the distinctive couple. They weren't there. A moment later he found them in one of the executive boxes . . .

He lost his balance,
windmilled his arms and staggered.

They were kissing. Lip locked. Luke watched Dan King put one meaty hand on the Felicity lookalike's breast. She stepped in closer and rubbed herself against him.

Luke felt a flash of white hot fury that the man was cheating on Felicity, and then a second flush of shame. Wasn't that exactly what he'd wanted to do to Felicity just last night? What she'd been inviting him to do with her? There wasn't much point getting angry on her behalf, then, was there?

That didn't mean he wasn't sickened by the whole thing.

He heard a low whistle beside him, and whipped his head sideways to find Carlos next to him. Like Luke had been, the kid was staring at the box.

"Do you know that's not Mrs King?" asked Carlos, wide-eyed.

"Yep."

"Should we . . . should we tell someone?"

"Should we tell Mrs King, you mean?"

"I . . . I don't know."

Luke grimaced. It was hard explaining what passed for modern morality to a kid. Not that the boy was that much younger than him, but when you played for a professional team you saw a lot of stuff going on you never even knew people did. Let alone anyone you actually met. A few years there was an eye-opening sex education.

"It's not how things are done. And maybe she already knows."

"Not her," said Carlos with absolute certainty, and Luke felt his mouth twist. He would have said exactly the same thing exactly the same way this time yesterday.

"You never know with people. You just never know." And wasn't that the truth?

He turned away from the unpleasant sight, and Carlos followed him, falling into step at his side. "Hey dude," he said tentatively, scratching at his head. "I just wanted to ask, do you still get nervous? Before the games I mean."

"Hmmm.
What?" he said, distracted. "Uh, sometimes. Not so much, though. First season's the toughest. You'll settle into it. Use the nerves. If you let them they help you focus."

"It's wringing me out."

"Try not to think about the game itself until the last minute, or you'll peak too soon. Just go through those visualizations Coach was talking about. That helps with the focus too."

"Isn't there, like, stuff you can take to help with energy and playing better?"

"What do you mean?"

"Have you ever heard of . . . of Adderall?"

"Say what?" said Luke, trying not to react too big. Man, he hated how quick they got to the new kids. It made him sick.

"Adderall. Like, I've heard there are some guys who use it to play better, you know. And I was wondering if you'd heard about it too. Like, is it any good, or are there any, you know . . . side effects or stuff like that?"

Luke aimed for casual. "First off, no, I haven't heard about it personally. Pretty much everyone knows how I feel about performance enhancing drugs. If someone's using they aren't likely to tell me about it. Second, you don't want to get messed up with that stuff. Chemicals might improve something today but you've got no idea how that's going to be down the road. Don't do it to yourself, man. It's totally not worth it."

"But I want to do the best I can for the team, you know? I don't want to let anyone down."

Luke had heard that line before on other days, around other teams. Combined with that revolting thing he'd just seen in the executive box it made his gut clench, so maybe his answer came out a little less diplomatic than he'd have chosen. "Listen, you got picked for this team because you have the skills to be
on it. You just do the best you can, you train hard, you play hard, and no one is going to be disappointed. You've got to think about all of your life. Not just this one moment of it, and don't listen to idiots who won't have to live with the aftereffects like you will."

"Okay, well, I hear you. I mean yeah, that's a good point."

Luke knew from the way Carlos spoke the young man wasn't convinced. He took a deep breath, then let it go. As passionately as he believed what he'd just said, Carlos was a grown man and he'd make his own choices. Drug-taking was rife in the industry and if a player wanted the stuff he could have it, no questions asked. Stamping and screaming about it, being a zealot, was a quick road to being ignored on the subject altogether, or shut out completely.

He broke into a jog, heading towards the end of the field, to the changing rooms, Carlos close enough behind to hear his breath, and the thump of his shoes hitting grass. They caught up with Big Joe still walking. The man could move
quick when he wanted, but most of the time he was slow as syrup. That's how he could take the opposition by surprise the way he did. Then
bam
, he'd run right over them.

"Hey Joe, you seen that?" asked Carlos, dropping to a walk. He flicked his thumb over his shoulder towards the box, behind them now.
Luke slowed too, unusually ready to listen to the gossip. Joe took one look where Carlos was pointing then shrugged.

"Yeah," he said, dispirited. "Mr King gave Mrs King the heave-ho. Got himself a newer model."

Luke suddenly felt like he couldn't breathe. "What?"

"He was introducing that one around yesterday.
His girlfriend. Everyone was being all polite and then Mrs Otis says nastylike: 'And your
wife
, Mr King?’ And Mr King doesn't like that and he just squints at her like this and says 'I've called it quits.' Mrs Otis she walks away like he's not even worth talking to anymore." 

"So you're sure it was
him
that left
her
?"

"Well look at him. It's been less than a week since Mrs K was here with him and everything was cool. Now it's the girlfriend. If it was Mrs K who'd pulled the plug he'd be moping around. Not sticking it in some twenty-year-old he's probably been banging for who knows how long."

Carlos looked as sick as Luke felt. "Poor Mrs King," he said softly.

Aw, hell.

Hell!

She hadn't been cheating on her husband. She'd been trying to get over her cheating husband. And she'd picked him to do it with.

What had he done? Turned her down, that's what.

Idiot
!

When he would have given anything, damn near
anything
for a solid chance to woo her, he'd gone and messed it up in the worst way possible.

She hadn't seemed mad at him. She'd looked perfectly friendly, but the churning in his stomach echoed the dread on his mind. No woman liked to feel rejected. Not for any reason.