Game On

By Wylie Snow

Secrets, lies, lust ... whatever it takes to win.

Clara Bean, Europe's most respected restaurant critic, lands on American soil to do a promotional tour with a sports icon. But how will she keep her career-ending secret from her deliciously handsome new partner? She quickly learns that all games have rules, even falling in love.

Luc Bisquet can't seem to score any points with sassy, sexy Clara despite the palatable chemistry between them. But he's willing to endure as many penalties as it takes to crack her icy reserve, because winning is everything. Game on!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wylie Snow
• Release date: May 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9780991939503

Wylie Snow

Almost every author says they wanted to write from a very early age. Not me. I wanted to be a detective like Nancy Drew, or a wildlife expert like Jim Fowler or an archaeologist like Indiana Jones. Or own an island resort and make fantasies come true! I didn’t do too badly with any of those... I married a detective, worked in a zoo, explored shipwrecks instead of old ruins, and spent 18 glorious years living on a sunny island. As for those fantasies... That’s another book ;)

Book preview

Chapter 1

Clara blew her nose into a dampened, shredded tissue, her twelfth since taking off from Heathrow. She knew this because it was the last one in the travel-sized pack. Bugger. How could a mere dozen single-ply squares get a hysterical woman across an entire ocean?

I’ve blown through the last of them, Lyds, she said. And we’re barely over Bermuda.

Lydia pushed her satin eye mask onto her forehead with an impatient huff and plucked the soggy wad from Clara’s fist, replacing it with a fresh square from her own packet.

Thanks, Clara sniffed as Lydia reset her sleeping mask. She waited a beat before adding, You know, as my best friend, you’re supposed to at least pretend you’re sad.

Lydia once more extracted a long, pale limb from the ridiculously small airline blanket to slide the mask up. How she did that without smudging her mascara was a mystery.

I’m sorry, darling, Lydia said in her crisp London accent. "I know he was your partner, though I use that term loosely, and I am trying to be supportive, really, but he was perpetually grumpy and hardly personable. He snarled at me like I was yesterday’s whore no matter how many treats I slipped him."

Clara felt a bit of a pretender herself, using Biscuit’s death as a convenient cover to shed the tears of tension that had been building up since her life topsy-turvied. Or maybe it was simply the final straw. The proverbial they say bad things come in threes; therefore, Clara was done. First had been her accident, second was the sale of the newspaper, though the ramifications of that were still pending, and third was Biscuit’s demise. Nothing else could possibly go wrong. He wasn’t grumpy. He just looked that way because of his severe under-bite.

Lydia’s perfectly plucked brow cocked above her left eye.

Oh, all right, Clara shrugged. I concede. He was a tiny bit grumpy, but only on the days he was stuck in the office. When we travelled, he was fine, completely in his element. And as for his snarling, all I can say is that he knew a bribe when he saw it. He could sense your indifference, that’s why he didn’t come running every time you snapped your come-hither fingers.

Yes, well, I’m as shocked as you are by his untimely demise, but he’s just not worth runny eye makeup.

Don’t be so such a hard-arse, Lyds, Clara scolded. You know I’m completely lost without him. My career is over. I depended on him. And I can’t keep hiding my problem from Charlie now that—

Speak of the devil and here he comes, Lydia warned.

Clara looked up from her mid-row seat to see her rotund boss at EuroNow toddling down the narrow aisle of the aircraft. His ruddy face sported the same adolescent smile most men wore around Lydia. Oh, to have that kind of power over the male species.

Good of him to venture into the slums of economy class to check on his serfs, Lydia said under her breath.

Clara smirked behind her tissue. Charlie wasn’t a bad sort, but his sense of self-worth was highly overrated. And he had a crush on Lydia that was embarrassingly obvious to everyone on the staff of the newspaper, including his wife.

He rested a pudgy arm on the back of Lydia’s aisle seat—she always scored the aisle because of her endless legs—and leaned forward until he was practically on top of her.

All right, Clara? Still upset about your dead Biscuit? Along with his style of over-enunciating every syllable, as though speaking to thick-headed toddlers, he added an annoying sympathetic whine.

Of course she’s still upset, Lydia crooned, pulling Clara into a crushing hug.

You’ve got to pull yourself together, Clara, he urged and patted her head, much like he used to do to Biscuit. Charlie had two modes when dealing with women: adulation and mothering. Lydia got the peeks down her cleavage while Clara got the clucking.

I know it’s hard, love, he continued. But we can’t have you meet our new management in the state you’re in. There are exciting plans in the works, so come on, wipe your tears and put on your big-girl knickers.

"That was unnecessary, Charlie," Lydia said.

Of course, Lydia, Charlie said, his eyes downcast, duly reprimanded. But Clara, he was just a dog. We’ll get you a new Biscuit.

Charlie! Lydia hissed while Clara dabbed a fresh well of tears.

Not to say that Biscuit can be replaced—such a sweet pup—but we can get you a Cookie or Sweetie or Pudding—

That’s quite enough, Charlie. She pulled Clara tighter. Go back to your first class cabin and eat your peanuts.

Cashews, actually.

Clara didn’t have to see Lydia’s face to know her eyes were rolling.

Thanks for checking on me, Charlie, Clara said, pulling back from her friend’s embrace. She was grateful for his attempts to make her feel better, but more grateful to Lydia for running interference. She could barely face him since the lies began all those months ago.

I’ll get the stewardess to make you a nice cup of tea, shall I?

Clara blew her nose into the remnants of the thirteenth tissue as soon as Lydia released her from the supportive-friend death-grip. Charlie was absolutely right. She couldn’t possibly drag her sorrowful self into the Bartel Media’s head office with a puffy face and runny mascara. That wasn’t the impression one wanted to give if one wanted to keep her job and travel-happy lifestyle intact.

No, she absolutely had to pull herself together. She’d worked too hard making a name for herself as one of the leading and most trusted restaurant critics in Western Europe. It had taken years, but she’d finally built up reputation and respect enough to make or break a restaurant with a mere mention in her regular Sunday column, Biscuit and Bean.

How on earth was she going to manage to hang on to her column once the big American media conglomerate took over? Within the month, she’d be expected to turn in new material. Within the month, her fraud would likely be discovered.

When the buyout had been announced, smug Charlie—the only one who’d been guaranteed his job as editor-in-chief—tried to reassure the staff, had promised to fight for every position, but he could only do so much to alleviate the level of anxiety that had clouded their generally happy work space. Speculation as to why Bartel Media Group wanted a piece of the European market had ruined karaoke night four weeks running. EuroNow was the hottest independent newspaper on the stands. Would they be stripped of their unique style, their unbiased reporting on news, culture, and fashion, and be turned into another over-regulated rag? And would they, the largest North American media conglomerate, keep the staff, the format, everything that made their daily hip and exciting? So whilst the group should have been annihilating old Spice Girls tunes and Beatles medleys between pints, they were instead contemplating where they would send their curricula vitae.

Clara’s concerns were more selfish. She had to fix her situation—thought she could, in the beginning—but with each passing week without a change in her condition, her confidence diminished and her anxiety grew.

She’d do anything to keep the job she loved, but how long could she preserve the status quo with lies? How long could she crush her moral code into silence before it crushed her? Certainly not long, especially without her crutch, Biscuit.

What am I going to do, Lyds? Clara said, disliking the desperation in her voice, but the situation was dire. I can’t do it alone.

You’ll bluff, just like the rest of us do on a day-to-day basis.

I can’t bluff something like this, Lyds. It’s too big. It’s like asking a deaf man to critique music.

You’re being dramatic.

I’m not! What if you were suddenly rendered color blind? Could you write a commentary on Burberry’s fall collection if you couldn’t tell the difference between burgundy and russet?

I suppose you have a point.

So you see, I’m not being dramatic, I’m being realistic. I can bluff for a while, perhaps, but my work will suffer for it. They’ll find out eventually. Clara lifted her elbows a few inches off the armrests. By the way, do I smell?

No, you’re good. And darling, stop worrying or you’ll get those unattractive forehead creases. You will figure it out. You always do. You’re the smart one, remember? Lydia squeezed Clara’s hand affectionately. It was a long-running gag between them, that Clara was the intelligent, resourceful, fix-everything gal while Lydia rode through life on her looks—a joke because Lydia aptly hid her razor sharpness behind her beauty.

Clara palmed her cool, clammy cheeks before wiping her sore eyes a final time. She pushed her fingers through her unstyled hair and took a deep breath in an effort to calm herself. Charlie’s right about one thing, Lyds. I can’t show up in America looking like this.

Now you’re giving me a problem I can solve, her friend said, tugging the giraffe-print makeup case out from under the seat in front of her. You need a mile-high makeover.

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Impossible. I can’t go. Luc clenched his jaw and resumed pacing in front of the four sixty-inch plasma screens gracing the east wall of his media room. His knee ached on every pivot, but he kept walking to limber up the muscles around the titanium and ceramic joint. There were no windows in his cave but he’d bet his Olympic gold medal a storm was coming.

You have to, Sutter countered. Bartel specifically requested your presence, and we all know that ‘request’ is his polite way of saying ‘be there or else.’

Sacre bleu! In his current mood, the last thing he wanted to do was stand on Bartel’s rooftop patio, drinking fluorescent cocktails. Luc rubbed the back of his neck. Riley Sutter, vice president of all things sports at BMG and the closest thing to a best friend he had, knew he loathed public events. Riley had been with him when the first panic attack hit, when the sweat drenched him and his heart muscle squeezed so tight that he saw black spots.

As if reading his mind, Riley added, It’s just the news division, Luc. These are colleagues, not strangers. The overseas contingent, of which there are perhaps twenty, tops, are just like us: journalists, editors, photographers.

Can’t. There’s a Boston game on tonight.

Record it.

Not the same.

Bullshit. Besides, it’s pre-season. How important can it be?

Very important.

Luc, don’t be difficult.

He was being difficult and God bless Sutter for putting up with his crap. How can I write about the upcoming season if I don’t know what the new lineup is capable of, what the rookies are putting out?

If the threat of making Bartel angry isn’t enough, let me appeal to your sense of brotherhood.

Explain.

The lovelies from EuroNow will be there, and you know I have a thing for foreign accents.

"And this is why you like me, non?" Luc said with an extra heavy layer of French-Canadian inflection.

"No, no, noooo. You sound like a big goof, Sutter drawled. But I need a wingman."

No, my friend. What you need are manners, charm, and a hundred grand worth of plastic surgery. Then, and only then, will you have a shot of picking up women without me.

Believe what you will, Sutter laughed.

One hour, Luc said. I can come for one hour. That should be long enough for you to find someone who’ll tolerate your company.

Fine. Be there at seven sharp. And wear something nice.

Define nice.

Nothing with a team logo, nothing you’d consider training attire, and nothing black.

Why not black?

"Makes you look big and, and…I dunno…surly."

Luc sunk into a buttery leather armchair, a smile forming around the corners of his mouth. "Mon dieu! I had no idea you felt this way about me."

Tell me something, frogman. Do you dream in French or English?

French, mostly. Why?

"So when I show up in your dreams, I know in which language to tell you to fuck off."

"Stop talking pretty to me, mon ami."

Seven, Luc. Don’t be late.

Chapter 2

P leasure to see you again, Charles.

Kingsley Bartel, who occupied the top spot on the multi-paged organizational chart of the Bartel Media Group, was the antithesis of Charlie Holmes. Tall, stately, and tanned, with a smile straight out of a Viagra commercial, Bartel oozed confidence, and not of the overinflated, misplaced variety. Most of his blond hair had turned to silver but it was still thick, wavy, and perfectly coiffed. Clara felt a twinge of sympathy for her boss and his receding hairline as he toddled forward into the dark-panelled conference room, his pasty English complexion a startling contrast as the men shook hands.

Kingsley, old bean! How’ve you been then, eh? Clara cringed at Charlie’s enthusiastically familiar greeting, but her shock turned to surprise when Bartel pulled him into a bear hug. And from the boney elbow that suddenly poked her ribs, Lydia was just as astounded.

Busy, busy, Charlie. You know how it is, Bartel said with a little shake of his head.

S’not easy taking over the world, then, eh?

Harder than one would think, old man, Bartel replied. Obviously, the two had bonded when Bartel was in London all those months back.

Clara was glad for him, glad that in this precarious situation, when livelihoods were at stake, Charlie had some collegial connection with the man who’d be deciding the fate of their futures.

I see you’ve brought your stars, Bartel said, motioning toward Clara and the others who’d shuffled in behind her.

I have indeed, Charlie nodded. Of course you know my Sue.

Ah, yes. Home Sense with Suzie, Bartel said, quoting Sue’s weekly contribution to EuroNow. Delighted to see you again but, sweetheart, you promised to stop using Charlie as guinea pig for all those new recipes.

Suzie Holmes, a dour faced woman who matched her husband in stature but sadly not in demeanor, put her sausage-like fingers over her lips and tittered at Bartel’s comment. Tittered! In all the years Clara had worked with Sue, she’d never, never seen anything that resembled a titter, not even when Charlie proposed via third page editorial. Clara shifted her eyes toward Lydia in hopes of exchanging a disbelieving eye roll, but was staggered to see her friend staring at Bartel with unabashed admiration.

Lydia impressed?

Lydia interested?

Lydia not trying to stifle a yawn of boredom?

Bartel must have sprayed some kind of magic dust in the air before they all arrived. Clara felt a bit like Alice, shoved into this Wonderland of oddities. Charlie’s colloquial mannerisms should have Bartel squirming with discomfort, Sue’s lips should be pursed in disproval, and Lydia should be examining her nails in utter distain.

Suzie, Suzie, Suzie, Bartel continued. Must I make good on my threat and assign you to the health and fitness pages?

You might just have to, Sue replied and patted Charlie’s stomach.

Clearly embarrassed, Charlie pushed his wife to the side and called, Clara, where are you, love?

Clara stepped forward, into Bartel’s shadow. Goodness, he was an imposing man, standing well over six feet and impeccably dressed in tailored navy suit, crisp white dress shirt, and ruby puff to match the tie. She imagined he smelled like Drakkar Noir and made a mental note to ask Lydia about it later, when and if Lydia had come out of her trance.

Clara Bean, sir, she said, holding out her hand, of ‘Biscuit and Bean’. She was quite proud of herself for saying it without sobbing. Not even a sniff. The epitome of a good English stiff upper lip.

Ah yes, Clara Bean, our international food critic. Bartel’s grip was firm and efficient—two pumps and a clean release. Charlie tells me that Biscuit is no longer with you.

Clara let her eyes drop closed, but only for the briefest moment of emotion-gathering. That’s correct, sir, but—

Pity, he said, cutting her off before she could assure him it wouldn’t affect the column. Much. I need to see you in my office at eight tomorrow. He dismissed her with a flick of his gaze.

Clara stepped back and tried to contain her sudden panic. She looked to Charlie for reassurance, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Why would Kingsley Bartel want to speak to her, alone, at eight a.m.? This was not good. No, not good wasn’t adequate. This was bad. Potentially very bad. Nothing good ever happened at eight in the morning. Early time slots were reserved for the heavy stuff, stuff you didn’t want hanging over your head for the rest of the day. Nasty business-type stuff that couldn’t be solved with a pop in before you go to lunch or stop by at the end of the day. And he hadn’t used the socially correct we as in we need to chat or we should discuss, but instead used the very distinct I, as in I am the boss and my will shall be done.

Clara felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Had he discovered she was useless without Biscuit? But how could he? He couldn’t have got to her medical records in Italy, surely. Then again, she had no idea what a man as rich and powerful as Bartel was capable of.

The conference room suddenly felt too hot, too closed in, too full of bodies. She backed up until she felt a strong, sturdy supporting wall at her back and took a few deep breaths. Where was Lydia? Surely Lydia heard what Bartel had said. So why wasn’t her friend by her side or, at the very least, exchanging ominous glances? Ah, there she was, waiting her turn to kneel before the new king, still in a very un-Lydia-like state of enchantment.

How on earth was she going to get through the cocktail party on Bartel’s rooftop patio when all she wanted to do was sit in the hotel bar with Lydia and down gin and tonics until it all made sense?

Yes, that’s what they’d do. They’d go up to his little soiree, meet the other members of the BMG machine, and duck out early. Lydia would talk her down from the edge, they’d have a good giggle, and dissect Sue’s tittering performance.

Feeling less claustrophobic, she concentrated on Charlie as he continued the introductions of EuroNow’s staff. Her friends, all of them. How she’d hate for them to be broken up and scattered.

And this, Charlie said, leaving the best to last, is the incomparable, gorgeous, and talented fashion expert, whose reputation I’m sure, precedes her. Lydia Truelove.

Clara winced at Charlie’s unintentional faux pas. The last thing Lydia needed was for her reputation to be remembered.

Ah, yes. Bartel took her hand loosely. His voice changed from affable to curt when he continued. I understand you’re leaving us tomorrow?

Prada waits for no man, sir. I’ve a seven a.m. flight.

Bartel’s eyebrows drew together as if annoyed. I need a word with you. Now. You and Charles can follow the others later.

Clara’s stomach did another nervous flip-flop. Poor Lydia. Poor me!

Bugger. Now she was projecting her own insecurities onto Lydia’s situation, which was utter nonsense. Lydia had absolutely nothing to worry about. Her dog hadn’t died, her byline was safe, and her reputation in the fashion industry was beyond reproach. Lydia had pretty much discovered Louis Chabot, the hottest designer to come out of France since Dior, and was given carte blanche access to every fashion house in Europe.

She looked reassuringly at her friend, but Lydia’s face, normally so calm and composed, had paled beneath her flawless makeup. Aha. So she wasn’t overreacting. Lydia was worried, too. She’d worked so hard to erase her scandalous past. Bartel couldn’t fire her for a ten-year-old indiscretion, could he?

Lydia flashed a confused look toward their editor-in-chief, who just shrugged, but Clara could tell by the way his cheeks splotched that Charlie had a fair idea what was happening. And it certainly explained his over-the-top introduction.

The rest of you can go on up to the party. My assistant will escort you.

While the rest of them filed out, Clara moved next to her friend. Do you want me to wait?

No, no. I’m sure it’s nothing, Lydia said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. I’ll see you on the roof.

How about I wait in the hall—

Don’t be silly, darling, Lydia crooned and leaned to whisper in Clara’s ear, The old fox probably wants some fashion advice. His ensemble is so two thousand and ten. She gave Clara a push toward the door. I’ll see you up top.

Reluctantly, Clara followed the others, her precarious emotional state forgotten when the elevator doors opened into the glass foyer.

All of them slowed their steps as they emerged through the double doors, heads swivelling, jaws dropping. Who could have guessed that a stunning tropical garden existed high above downtown Miami? It was complete with potted palms, sculpted topiary, tinkling fountains, hibiscus bushes exploding with colourful blooms, trails of bougainvillea dripping from the pergola that surrounded the perimeter, all topped with enough fairy lights to land a plane.

It was magical and could only be an omen of good things to come.

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It was seven-thirty sharp when Luc made his entrance onto the rooftop of BMG headquarters. He held back in the elevator foyer for a moment, scanning the crowd, as was his habit since the night two years ago that stole his career and changed his life. He looked for…what? He really didn’t know. Suspicious, long-coated men brandishing arms? It was a ridiculous paranoia, he knew that, and yet the saliva in his mouth dissipated and his pulse pounded a bit faster at his already-throbbing temples.

These were all BMG’s news division employees, he reminded himself. Just like Riley said, these were friends, colleagues, journalists and photographers, copy setters, editors, and administrators. Nobody here posed a threat, nobody here wanted him dead. With a final breath, Luc pushed the double glass doors open and strode onto the rooftop.

In the middle of his own private Eden, the king held court. Surrounded by BMG staff, lackeys, and general hangers-on was the head of the biggest media conglomerate in North America. Kingsley Bartel had created an empire that consisted of cable television networks, a publishing house, national newspapers, and radio.

Luc had worked for BMG long enough to know what the big man liked. Kingsley Bartel loved to surround himself with characters, much like a movie director casting roles. He was drawn to stereotypes, caricatures, and real-life performers, which explained why his social circle comprised mostly of politicians, newsmakers, and Hollywood’s finest. Married and divorced four times, his latest personal accessory was the lovely Valentina who, Luc knew from personal experience, was the epitome of a spoilt beauty queen. She didn’t appear to be on his arm tonight, a small comfort.

Luc had no delusions as to what role he filled. He wasn’t merely a sports figure—the world was littered with guys who could kick, hit, and throw balls. No, Luc was Bartel’s personal hat trick; a French-Canadian ex-hockey player, Olympic gold medalist, and victim of a sensational crime.

Though Luc had grown up in a bilingual suburb of Montreal and spoke flawless English, without a trace of accent, he always made sure to stay in character around Bartel.

Monsieur Bartel, Luc said, approaching with his hand out.

Ah, bonjour Luc! Bartel gripped his hand and patted his opposite shoulder.

Bonsoir. Ca va?

Très bien, merci. Et vous?

Very well, thank you. Luc switched to English in deference to his boss’s limited vocabulary.

I’m pleased to see you were able to carve a few moments from your busy schedule to accommodate us this evening.

I wouldn’t have missed it.

Big night for BMG, Luc. Big night, he said, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter. We’ve finally managed to recruit a European player, so to speak.

"So I have heard. A newspaper, non? Luc lifted his glass and murmured, Salut."

Not just a newspaper, Bartel said, returning Luc’s toast. EuroNow. They have circulation in twelve countries. Their main office is in London, but they’ve satellite desks in Spain, Germany, and France. Ever heard of them?

"Oui, I’ve heard, but not read."

There’s a stack of samples on the display table. Take a few back copies on your way out. Bartel lifted the crystal flute to his lips. He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. Study them, Luc. Familiarize yourself with the tone, the style, the cadence. We’ll discuss it in the morning.

Luc pulled back and nodded, though he was puzzled. What did the cadence of a Western European newspaper have to do with him? Before he could press for an explanation, Bartel turned his attention to the next minion who approached his circle.

Luc shook hands with a few acquaintances as