The Player, page 20
He hated that he had to return to D.C. The last thing in the world he wanted was to leave his woman and get on a plane.
His woman.
Damn, he liked the sound of that.
And maybe he didn’t have to go. Maybe he could just stay through her party.
He kissed Joy’s shoulder absently and felt her stir against him. The slow-boil arousal he’d woken up with quickly overflowed, flooding his body with heat and need.
Except considering how demanding he’d been the night before, he wasn’t sure whether she’d be ready for more of him.
The question was put to rest when she pulled him over on top of her.
He looked down into her face. Her eyes were low-lidded with the remnants of sleep and the beginnings of passion.
He couldn’t find words for how lovely she was to him. How the night before she’d taught him about true passion, not the other way around. How she was reaching him on so many levels that she terrified him and amazed him in turns.
All he could do was show her. With his mouth and his hands. His body.
He kissed her slow and easy, parting her lips with his tongue—
The phone rang on the bedside table, about two feet from his ear. He felt like he’d been shot through the head.
Glaring at the damn thing, he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not picking up.”
It went silent after four rings.
He was lowering his head back down when it started up again.
And then his cell phone went off in the pocket of his suit jacket. And his BlackBerry started bleating on the top of the dresser.
When he got triple-teamed like this, it was because the world was on fire. Someone important had been assassinated. Or died. Or been brought up on charges.
With a vicious curse, he grabbed the cordless off the bedside table while standing up and going for the portables. “What?”
“It’s Dellacore. We got a big issue, boss.”
Gray stalked over to his suit, pulled out the cell phone and flipped the thing open. “Hold on, Randolf’s on the cell. Yeah, Randy? Dell’s on the landline, I’ll call you back.”
He checked the BlackBerry. Another one of his people.
“So who kicked it?” Gray asked. “Or got kicked?”
He left the bedroom, thinking that maybe Joy could go back to sleep.
* * *
AS GRAY SHUT THE DOOR behind himself, Joy curled over on her side. She could hear his voice, low and grim, in the other room.
Her body was still warm from what they had started and she thought of the way he’d looked at her just now, right before he’d kissed her. His eyes had had a kind of depth to them she’d never seen before. If she wasn’t deluding herself, it had been something close to love.
Was it even possible? But how else could his incredible passion last night be explained? She didn’t need to have had a hundred lovers to know that what had passed between them had been beyond good chemistry. Something had changed between them—
The doors opened and Gray strode into the room. “I have to go to Washington right away.”
She scrambled upright, holding a sheet over her breasts. “What happened?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.” His words were clipped as he headed into the bathroom.
She heard the shower turn on. Less than ten minutes later, he came back into the bedroom and went straight to the closet.
“Gray? Tell me what’s going on.”
In mere minutes, he emerged fully dressed. His face was impassive, his mouth nothing but a grim line. He paused by the bed.
“I don’t know if I’m going to make it to the party.” He bent down, eyes boring into hers. He opened his mouth. Shut it. “I will never forget the warmth you showed me last night.”
His lips brushed hers. And then he was gone.
An awful numbness stole over her. She pulled more of the sheets and blankets around her body.
Maybe his father had taken ill again. Or there was some kind of emergency.
He would call her, she thought. Later in the day. He always did.
Except when seven o’clock rolled around and she hadn’t heard a word, she felt like she’d been totally forgotten.
She’d spent the whole day in the suite, shut off from the outside world. She’d passed the hours refining her drawings, pretending that she was working while she really was just hanging by the phone.
As she finally showered for dinner, she remembered parts of conversations they’d had, words he had spoken.
I’ve left a lot of women the morning after and never looked back.
You should have saved it for someone who loved you.
You were absolutely right about that Tiffany’s charade. I don’t want to get married. I’m never going to get married.
I never knew sex could be like that.
Sex, not love, she thought. He’d never said one word about love.
In a bitter rush, she figured she had to give him some credit. He’d known what he was like and he’d fought himself as long as he could, even when she’d thrown herself at him. So none of this was a surprise. Now that he’d had her, he was done.
But maybe—
She stopped herself. He hadn’t cared enough to call or even explain why he’d had to leave. Come on, did she really need it spelled out more clearly? She loved him. He didn’t love her. That was it.
She forced herself to go down to the Bull and Bear Restaurant and have dinner. As she watched the other patrons laugh and talk over their wine and beef, she was so lonely she wanted to cry.
Chapter Sixteen
WHEN JOY WALKED OUT onto Fifth Avenue a little after ten the next morning, she felt as if she’d aged a decade for every hour since Gray had taken off without a backward glance.
As she went to her appointments, her sketch folio under her arm, her box of pencils and supplies in her hand, she worked hard to keep from tearing up. To distract herself, she thought of the colors of Saranac Lake. The ice-blue of the autumn sky. The yellow flashes of sunlight over churning, navy waves. The deep green of the hemlock-bearded mountains.
In the midst of the gray, architectural forest she walked through now, she missed the hues and tones of the northern woods.
And the rush of the people around her no longer seemed exciting. The mania was discordant and jarring. She had to fight to keep her portfolio from being kicked out of her arm as pedestrians brushed up against her. When she stepped off the curb without looking, a taxi honked and its driver flipped her off.
By the time five o’clock came around, Joy headed back to the Waldorf, feeling deflated. The evening’s reception loomed over her like a tangible obstacle, something she had to surmount or break through.
She checked the Amtrak schedule. The last train leaving for upstate pulled out of Penn Station at ten forty-five. The party was starting at seven and would be over by nine-thirty. If she packed her things, she’d just have to stop by the hotel to get her bags before she headed across town for the trip home.
As she rode up to Gray’s suite in the elevator, she thought that the fantasy of coming to New York, being with a handsome, powerful man and finding success in a career was a good fantasy. But only on paper. The reality had left her bruised, older and painfully wiser.
She would go back to Saranac Lake and complete the five gowns. If tonight yielded any more prospects, she could return to the city if she wanted to, but her home base was going to remain upstate. With the money she’d earned so far, she could afford to move into a small apartment with Grand-Em until White Caps was back in working shape. And she could probably camp out with Alex in their father’s workshop until she found a place of her own.
The elevator came to a stop, a bell chiming. She stepped out into the creamy hallway and looked down at the beautiful golds and maroons of the carpet.
One thing was certain. She was never staying at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel ever again, no matter how much cash she had.
* * *
“HELLO, DAD,” GRAY SAID as he walked into his father’s study. He’d been back in Washington since the prior morning, but this was the first chance he’d had to get home. “I know you’ve heard.”
As was now typical, his father was not seated behind the big mahogany desk but was in front of the fire. A red tartan throw covered his legs though the room was warm.
“I. Have.”
Gray sat down in the closest chair. He still couldn’t believe what had happened, even after having spent the last day and a half talking about the tragedy nonstop with news outlets, political figures, pundits.
John Beckin was dead. Had been found hanging in his bathroom by one of his staff.
“You okay?” Gray asked.
His father frowned. “Sad.”
Gray looked away, not wanting his eyes to show.
“Son?” When there was no response, his father leaned forward, taking Gray’s hand and shaking it. “Son? Talk.”
Gray squeezed his father’s palm and then sat back in the chair.
His father cracked his cane into the floor, the sound a demand he didn’t have the strength to make with his voice.
Gray cleared his throat. “I saw Becks two nights before he did it. We argued. I, uh—it got nasty. Real nasty.”
“Think. Fault. Yours?”
“Hell, Dad. I threatened to expose some of the things he’s done.”
“No. Fault.” His father’s head shook back and forth steadily. “Beckin. Been. Threaten. Hundreds. Times.”
Yeah, that was no doubt true. But Gray somehow couldn’t escape the burden of knowing he’d probably been the last to do it. And both he and Beckin had known he was serious. Unless Beckin had retired, Gray had been prepared to expose him.
There was a long silence.
“Beckin. Was. Talking.”
“What, Papa?” Gray sat forward, planting his elbows on his knees, not really hearing what Walter was saying.
“Newspapers.”
Gray frowned. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Anna. Shaw. Call. Me. Yesterday.” His father took a deep breath, as if the effort of talking was exhausting him, but he was determined to get the words out. “Want. Comment. On. Death.”
Gray waited as his father struggled to gather his thoughts and make them come out of his mouth right.
“At. End. I. Said. Will. Miss. Him.” There was a pause. “She. Mutter. Yes. Best. Source. She. Ever. Had.”
Gray felt shivers cross his skin. “Beckin was the Senate leak?”
His father nodded. “She. Take. Back. Words. So. Probably. True.”
Gray leaned back in the chair.
“Don’t. Blame. You. Self. Beckin. Demons. Own. Many.”
“My God.”
His father’s head fell back, his eyes closing. He looked so old. So frail.
Gray wondered how much time they had left together.
“I love you,” Gray whispered. God, how long had it been since he’d said those words to his father?
Walter’s eyes fluttered open. The surprise in them told Gray it had been ages since they’d shared a moment like this. Even after the stroke, Gray had been so busy trying to take care of things, trying to be strong, that he hadn’t done a lot of talking.
But that had always been his weakness, hadn’t it?
“I love you, Papa,” Gray said loudly and clearly.
“Love. You. Son.”
“I’ll call you later.”
“Okay.” His father’s eyes closed, but his face had eased. There was a peace to him that went beyond the moment, that stretched back into the past and ahead into the future.
As Gray was leaving the room, his assistant called on the cell.
“I’ve booked you on the shuttle back to New York,” she said. “Your plane leaves in forty minutes. You better hustle.”
Gray knew he should probably stay in Washington, but the need to get back to Joy was too loud to ignore. Besides, his people would know where to find him and he’d already talked to CNN, FNC and the three major networks. He’d also touched base with his clients who were all nervous about how the death might affect the election. And he’d spent twenty minutes on the phone with the President.
God, he’d wanted to call Joy since he’d left her, but there hadn’t been a minute to spare.
And there was more to it than that. She’d rocked his world the night before last and he wanted her to know it, but not over the damn phone. The need to tell her everything, to lay himself bare was what was driving him back to her. As much as he didn’t deserve Joy, as much as his feelings scared him, as much as loving her might change him, he had to let her know.
It was almost eight when he landed at JFK and he went straight to the Congress Club. When he walked into the lobby, he could hear the sound of the reception reverberating off the marble walls. Going over to the club’s ballroom, he paused in the doorway.
Everything was set up exactly as he’d asked. Joy’s designs were posted around on brass standards. There were massive bouquets of fresh flowers. Candles were lit and glowing. And people were crowding to get to the woman in the center of the room.
Joy was wearing a chrome-yellow gown that fit her like water, the swirling beauty of her hair set off by the outrageous color. She was talking with animation, smiling. People were staring at her in awe.
She didn’t need him, he thought with pride. She was in control of herself and the room.
He thought back to the night of the barbecue, when she’d danced in his arms. She’d seemed so young to him then, but now he saw her as the woman she was. Strong. Elegant. Smart.
A man walked into the circle surrounding her. When he slipped his arm around her waist, Gray stiffened, but he realized it was just a reflex. As Joy subtly, but firmly, stepped away, he thought that though her unguarded rebuff told him so much, he didn’t need the confirmation that she wasn’t with anyone else. Not after the night when they’d finally been together.
He was the one with the problem. And he was never going to tangle his past with her integrity again.
“Grayson Bennett, right?”
Gray glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “Do I know you?”
“I’m with the New York Post. Here to cover the new designer. But now that I see you, can I get a quote about Beckin’s suicide?”
“No, you can’t.”
“Are you surprised? Do you have any idea what might have caused him to kill himself?”
At that moment, a journalist from the Times looked through the crowd at Gray and started making her way over. A couple of other people noticed him and started whispering.
Gray turned and strode out of the lobby. He wasn’t going to ruin Joy’s moment. As much as he wanted to be in there with her, his presence was going to kick up the Beckin scandal and dilute her exposure.
He’d see her back at the suite.
* * *
AS JOY STEPPED AWAY from the man who’d put his arm around her waist, she glanced across the room and caught sight of a dark head turning away at the entrance.
Gray.
Her heart went cold as she watched him leave.
God, even after the night they’d had together, he was still convinced any man who touched her was going home with her.
“Joy? Are you all right?”
She turned and forced a smile at Cassandra. “Yes. I am.”
“Well, then come over here and meet Lula Rathbone.”
Two hours later the reception wound down and Joy was in a taxi heading back to the Waldorf. She regretted like hell not bringing her bags with her and hoped Gray had gone elsewhere.
When she opened the door to the suite, she listened carefully. Hearing no sound, she rushed into the guest bedroom.
Only to find him sitting in a wing chair. Right next to her luggage.
His hands were up in a bridge in front of his chest. He looked grim.
“You’re packed,” he said.
“I’m leaving.”
“Why?”
“There’s a ten forty-five to Albany.”
She went over and grabbed the portfolio and her battered suitcase. His hand whipped out, stopping her.
“Let me go,” she said.
“I don’t want to.”
“Why? Do you need to get laid again?”
He hissed, hand tightening. “Is that what you thought our night together was?”
“Yes. I do.” Because making love takes two, she thought. And it was just sex to you.
His hand fell away. He seemed to pale, as if he were either shocked or offended.
More likely the latter, she thought.
“You know I suppose I should thank you,” she bit out. “You’ve taught me so much and turned me into a success, just like one of your candidates, right? You told me what to wear and what to say, and you got the players all lined up, and everything went smoothly. They loved my work and I’m sure I’ll be getting more clients so I guess I have a steady job now. It’s a hell of a payback you gave me for just a couple of hours with my body.”
Gray rose from the chair, fury in his face. “You think I’m that kind of man?”
“You don’t love me. You don’t trust me. But you’re clearly susceptible to guilt. Tonight was just a different version of that showdown at Tiffany’s. I figure now you think you can walk away with a clean conscience.”
He loomed over her, enraged. “Just so you know, I had no intention of walking away from you. Until now.” He marched around her, heading into the living room. “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass when you leave, sweetheart.”
As if he were the one who’d been wronged.
She went after him, lugging her stuff. “You have a hell of a nerve getting pissed off! You’re the one who walked out on me two days ago.”
“Are you still here?” he drawled from the bar as he poured himself a bourbon. When he turned to her, his stare was icy.
Looking up at him, she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes.
“Oh, good. Now you’re going to cry,” he snapped. “You insult the hell out of me, get all huffy because I’m offended, and then pull the weepy routine. I never pictured you as a gamer, but maybe I was wrong. You want me to get all romantic and beg you to stay now, right?”
“No, I would never expect that,” she whispered.
