Secret Games
They’d been there for each other through disappointing report cards and a host of parental punishments. She’d stuck by him when he’d broken his leg skateboarding and couldn’t run with the neighborhood kids. Sam had cradled her and Hambone in his arms when her elderly Maltese had peacefully exited from life.
He’d proven himself the best of friends by helping her cope with the ugliness of her parents’ divorce and the emotional fallout afterward. She’d led Sam through the process of funeral arrangements after his parents had died in a car accident and remained by his side during the long dark months while he’d dealt with his grief.
They’d survived her stint with vegetarianism and his fascination with home beer brewing. Sam was her friend, her anchor, her lifeline when life got crazy.
He was the only man in the world with whom Maggie could be herself. The only man she could count on not to turn his back when the going got tough. Through good times and bad, through changes of jobs, schools, friends and lovers, Sam was always there. Maggie trusted him in a way she’d never trusted another man. Not even her father. Especially not her father.
Sam was her ideal, the yardstick she held all other men to. Sex with Sam would mess things up completely.
“He’s too important to me,” she finally said. “Sex complicates things, and I won’t risk ruining the special relationship we have, or risk losing him. Not to address the weak link in my therapy. Not for anything.”
“Sex doesn’t have to complicate things. It can add depth to a relationship and make it even stronger.”
“With my track record? Please. The only reason my relationship with Sam works is because we stay out of bed.”
Maggie clung to the doorjamb, longing to propel herself into the hallway, snuffing out the sound of Lyn and her too-close-for-comfort observations. All right. Maybe it was high time she took a long look at why she couldn’t stay in a relationship past the time it took her guy du jour to memorize her phone number. Was her problem recognizing trouble in long-term relationships symbolic of her own inability to stay in one?
“I’ll think about whom I might invite, Lyn. That’s the best I can do.”
“Ask Sam.”
“Even if I was willing, Sam wouldn’t be. He dates, but he doesn’t do one-night stands. He’s only had three long-term relationships in the entire time I’ve known him. And to my knowledge, he’s never even had a quickie.”
“Then you won’t run the risk of catching anything.”
How Lyn delivered that statement with a straight face, Maggie would never know. “Very funny.”
“You need practical application, Maggie, my friend. Accept it and ask Sam. He’s your best choice for the job. You can’t go to this superclub alone and whoever you take is bound to have sex on the brain. At least you and Sam are long-term. Taking him will serve a purpose.”
Lyn had a point. If Maggie spent most of her visit to Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast circumventing sexual advances, she wouldn’t have the time or the energy to observe the interplay between other couples.
Perhaps Sam was the best choice for the job. Sex didn’t factor into their relationship, so he wouldn’t be distracted by the sexual theme of the place.
“I think I will ask Sam to come with me,” she said, taking an inordinate amount of satisfaction when she wiped the smile from Lyn’s face by adding, “to observe.”
“Now you’re back to unrealistic expectations,” she scoffed. “I’ve spent enough time with you and Sam to safely guess he isn’t suffering from an inactive libido. If you take the guy to a sex club, he’s going to want to have sex.”
“Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast is not a sex club—it’s a romance superclub—and Sam won’t want sex. He’s my friend.”
“Charles is my friend, too.”
Maggie scowled. “Observation, Lyn. Not practical application. I’m going home now.”
And not to ask Sam to have sex. Observation, only. Though, if Maggie were completely honest with herself, Sam wasn’t the one she should be worried about. Those late-night fantasies of hers didn’t need any encouragement.
But she’d already had enough honesty today, thank you.
2
TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP, pause, tap-tap.
The sounds vibrated from Sam Masters’s antiquated heater in a series of harsh taps that jarred the midnight quiet. Sam smiled. The crude, but familiar melody translated into a secret code. Though he never consciously hoped to hear it, he was always glad when he did.
Are you alone? Got time to talk?
He set down the mug of coffee he’d been nursing while reviewing a client’s investment portfolio and made his way into the living room. A miniature replica of a judge’s mallet hung by a leather loop from the side of the furnace heater.
Though Maggie always improvised with her own rendition of the Morse code he’d taught her when he was still in Boy Scouts, Sam adhered to the formal rules of the dots, dashes and spaces. Retrieving the mallet, he hammered out the word yes.
Tap-tap, tap-tap, pause, tap, pause, tap-tap-tap.
He waited.
Tap-tap. On my way.
Within seconds, Sam heard the tread of Maggie’s footsteps loping lightly down the bare wooden stairs. He opened the door to their shared hallway just as she stepped off the last riser.
“Hi.” Her bright-green gaze caught his, a welcoming smile clicking her expression to high beam. “Not too late, is it?”
“I was working.”
Chuckling, she swept past him and through the door he held open. “You always are.”
Though her laughter sounded silvery and light, Sam knew with one glance why she’d come for a visit.
Maggie had a problem.
Her gaze was a little too bright. Her creamy skin a shade too pale beneath the sprinkling of pale-gold freckles across her nose. Her smile rested easily on her pretty pink mouth, too easily. She seemed relieved to see him.
Throughout the years, Sam had experienced all sorts of Maggie melodrama. He’d survived nerves about dance recitals and ice-skating competitions. Worries about bum finances. Meltdowns about unfair grades. Angst about boyfriends. Way too much angst about boyfriends.
Sam recognized the symptoms, all right. She may sail into his living room with that breezy, devil-may-care attitude, but Maggie didn’t fool him for an instant.
As always, that tough-it-out veneer she wore over her vulnerability did crazy things to him, made him want to wrestle her troubles to the mat. And her, too.
As always, Maggie didn’t have a clue.
Sam pulled the door closed, before all the heat in his apartment could escape. Before Maggie could escape. She was his now. For a while, at least.
Though she was only of average height, her slim curves made her seem taller, almost lanky. The top of her red-gold head barely brushed his chin, and he was treated to a whiff of the scent he’d associated with Maggie for as long as he could remember, a scent that reminded him of orange blossoms.
There was a certain innocence about the fragrance that brought to mind a young Maggie, dabbing drops behind her ears from a girlish perfume bottle with ribbons. The years hadn’t tarnished that innocence, but had made it a unique part of the woman standing before him.
To ward off the winter cold, she wore a white robe over gray jersey long johns and a pair of Gumby slippers that had seen the better part of a year’s wear. Holding his glasses in place on the bridge of his nose, he noted that the green fuzz had been worn shiny in patches, and the protruding Gumby heads flopped limply with every step. Maggie didn’t seem to notice their sorry condition. Or care.
“I owe you a new pair,” he said.
“They’re comfy.”
“They’re falling apart.”
Giving Maggie a pair of cartoon character slippers was a tradition that began when Sam had been ten years old. He’d wanted to give a special Valentine to the young neighbor girl who’d been so instrumental in helping him make friends after his move to a new neighborhood.
The standard boxed fare had been too generic, and neither flowers nor candy had occurred to his fifth-grade brain. His mother had stepped in, deeming a pair of Bugs Bunny slippers—a character Maggie adored—perfect. She’d been right.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, more out of reflexive civility than necessity, since Maggie had already deposited a folded sheath of papers on his end table and was situating a steaming mug onto a coaster.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to say hi.”
Maggie up at midnight? A cup of what he presumed to be herbal tea? Did she really think she was fooling him?
“Let me grab my coffee.”
Sam nuked the dregs, parked his mug next to hers on the end table, and then settled himself in the recliner. Maggie, curled into a ball on the corner of his couch with her feet tucked neatly beneath her, watched him silently.
Even if he couldn’t read the symptoms, Sam would have known Maggie was troubled simply because she wasn’t chatting away about whatever was on her mind.
There was a high-strung sort of agitation about her that reminded him of the tense moments between a flash of summer lightning and the explosion of thunder.
“So how’s it going?” He attempted to get her started.
“Fine, and you? Make lots of money on the stock market today?”
“My clients won’t complain.”
“Good.” But a tiny frown creased her delicate brows. Work trouble, then.
“So, how was your day? Solve all your patients’ problems?”
Her gaze pierced the distance between them, wide, worried, yet misty with recognition because she realized that Sam already suspected something was up. He held her gaze steadily, drew in an expectant breath, and waited.
This was all the urging Maggie needed. She exploded, just like a clap of thunder, launching into a jumbled and breathless account of losing patients to sex and split-ups, of nice guys and superclubs and observation versus practical application.
Sam watched as Maggie’s cheeks reddened with agitation, or lack of oxygen, and her gesticulations grew wilder. He slid the mugs closer to his side of the table after she missed nailing one by mere inches.
He made a valiant effort to follow the threads of her disjointed tirade, but his own head was spinning by the time she’d braked hard on the emotions clearly racing inside her, stopped, and stared at him.
“So, what do you think?” she asked, winded.
He hesitated, unsure if she wanted his opinion about her choice in men or if she should take a research trip to some place called a superclub.
He must have hesitated too long because suddenly she was eyeing him accusingly, as though he hadn’t been listening well enough to answer her question.
Latching on to the last thing she’d said, Sam gave his opinion. “I’m for the trip. You should go.”
Jackpot.
Her narrowed gaze relented, and she said earnestly, “You really think so?”
“No doubt about it.” But he did have doubts. He still wasn’t clear on the correlation between sex and the so-called superclub. He’d stand a much better chance of getting her to clarify if he didn’t come straight out and ask.
“If you can get the experience you need to help this couple and get away at the same time, the trip will be considered job training. You’ll be able to write it off next year’s taxes as a business expense.”
She smiled, looking relieved. “Oh, Sam. You do have a gift for boiling things down to black and white.”
He only inclined his head at her compliment, but was pleased he’d made her smile.
“You really think observation is the way to go?”
“Well, I think getting away will do you good, and with your crunched finances, you can use a write-off. Elaborate on this observation for me. I’m not clear on the details.”
Staring into her mug, Maggie sipped before answering. “There’s a couple I haven’t been able to help, because I didn’t recognize that they needed to put sparks back in their long-term relationship. I don’t have much knowledge of long-term myself.”
Now there was an understatement. With her pale red-gold hair and creamy skin, Maggie was gorgeous in a natural, unaffected way that made men trip over themselves for her attention. That none ever managed to keep her attention for longer than it took the Dow Jones Average to dip was an occurrence he couldn’t entirely ascribe to her dates.
“How does a superclub translate into long-term experience?”
She huffed in obvious exasperation. “Think about it, Sam. I can’t just snap my fingers and miraculously get experience, so I have to improvise. I’ll visit one of these superclubs to observe the effects on couples. I’ll get all sorts of ideas to help Angie and Raymond, and others, too.”
Sam rubbed his temples beneath the arms of his glasses, certain it wasn’t the late hour but Maggie’s reasoning that encouraged this headache. She was infamous for her harebrained schemes and this one qualified as more harebrained than most. And who was she planning to take to this superclub? Last he’d heard, her current loser had already gotten his walking papers.
Man, this was exactly what he didn’t want to think about tonight. Maggie running off to some hotel with another guy. When was she going to learn? Better yet, when was he?
He’d had years to reconcile himself to the reality that Maggie didn’t think of him as anything more than a brother. By rights, the reconciling should be getting easier. No such luck.
“So your research trip is actually a visit to some sort of pleasure palace?” He was getting a clearer picture of what she was talking about and couldn’t keep the disapproval from his voice. “Does that about sum it up?”
“No!” Maggie cried indignantly. “This isn’t a pleasure palace. It’s a romance superclub.”
Which sounded like a classy name for a pleasure palace.
Sam could tell by the way Maggie straightened her spine and lifted her chin that he was about to be treated to an in-depth explanation of the differences. Slipping the sheaf of papers from the end table, she sank to her knees beside him and spread what he recognized as printouts of a Web site over his lap.
Steeling himself against the brush of her fingers on his jean-clad thigh, he made a valiant effort to focus on the papers she brandished at him, tried to concentrate on her words rather than the wispy hairs fringing her cheeks.
“I went online and researched these tonight. Superclubs are the hottest travel destinations right now. They cater to newlyweds and lovers for weddings, honeymoons and vacations. Long-term couples go to get away from the daily grind and put romance back in their lives. I found one that’s perfect.”
With one casual graze of her fingers, she hooked the errant strands of hair behind her ear. She wasn’t making this easy on him, but Sam knew Maggie had no idea she was providing him such distraction and undermining her own sales pitch in the process.
When she ran a painted pink fingertip over the page, he forced himself to follow its path, wrangled his unruly thoughts into compliance and read about the club’s more unique features.
Fun, active and romantic, our superclub is unique, the perfect escape for energetic—and slightly wicked!—couples. After all, the point is to honeymoon or reignite the spark.
Romance-themed suites are also available, including the lush Roman Bagnio, Victorian Bordello, Sultan’s Seraglio, Warlord’s Tower, Wild West Brothel, Demimondaine’s Boudoir, Roaring Twenty’s Speakeasy, Sixties’ Lovenest, Red-light District and the Space Odyssey.
Specialty shops offer a variety of romance enhancements designed to drive your partner wild.
“Jeez, Mags. Perfect? Leave it to you to find this place. What’s it called?” He scanned the page for a name. “‘Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast, the perfect place to experience love in the mist.’ That fits. What’s the mist? Some steamy sauna room with a water bed?”
Maggie rocked back on her haunches and exploded in laughter. “No, silly. The mist stands for Niagara Falls. There are superclubs everywhere—Vegas, Aspen, even in the Bahamas. The closest are in Niagara Falls and the Poconos. Since I’ve always wanted to see the Falls…”
Her voice trailed off, but Sam was only half listening. Visions of Maggie dressed in a harem girl’s costume grabbed his attention. Her long, slim curves revealed through the sheerest whisper of silk. Flashes of firm breasts and smooth belly. She had an innate sense of movement, polished with years of dance lessons, and he could envision her dancing for him so vividly, the tinkle of finger cymbals rang in his ears.
Then another of the superclub’s unique features caught his eye and snapped him from his fantasy.
Each superclub offers a variety of free services, including wedding coordination—let someone experienced in the ways of love help plan your special wedding.
Which led straight back to the question Sam didn’t want to dwell on: who was Maggie taking on this erotic research trip? His head pounded harder, but he knew better than to ask. Knowing the bum-of-the-month’s name would not make a difference.
Besides, Maggie wouldn’t be planning a wedding on this trip or any other, as near as he could tell. Given her inability to commit, he couldn’t see her being persuaded to take the plunge.
Then again, Maggie was one of the most impulsive people Sam knew. What if this turned out to be the one time she let her heart rule her head?
“So, who’s the lucky guy?” The question popped out, despite his determination not to ask. Out of the frying pan, he thought morosely, and into the fire. “Forget what I said about a tax write-off. Whoever he is, he should be paying.”
To Sam’s surprise, though, Maggie averted her gaze and hurriedly folded the superclub’s printout, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “Well, actually, I’ve been giving some thought about who to take.”
The uncertainty in her voice stopped him. The black temper responsible for this dull ache in his head receded. Miracle of miracles. Maggie didn’t have a date.
Grabbing his mug, Sam slugged back the remains of cold coffee. Maggie retreated to the corner of the couch again, curled tight in her little ball, sipping tea that, like his coffee, had to be stone cold.
“What kind of thoughts?” he asked.
“About how to convince him. I’m not sure he’ll go.”
Sam found that hard to believe, but apparently not Maggie. She seemed fidgety and had an uneasy look in her eyes. He wondered if she was feeling the effects of discussing sex. Though they’d shared different aspects of their various relationships before, the details never included even vague references to the bedroom. What took place between lovers had, by mutual, unspoken consent, been off-limits.
Sam had always assumed Maggie needed to keep the stable parts of her life—mainly her home and their friendship—separate from the more transient aspects and wasn’t comfortable blurring the boundaries. He knew she was no virgin, but in all the years she’d lived above him, she’d never had a date spend the night. She’d hosted plenty of dinners and get-togethers, but no man had ever walked down those stairs the morning after.
Sam knew because he’d been watching.
Maggie may need a push to think of him as more than a friend, but Sam had been thinking about it ever since he’d kissed her in their high school production of Rogers and Hammerstein’s Carousel.
Not only had he been watching Maggie, he’d been watching closely, keeping her near at hand, and fitting into her life wherever he saw an opening.
He hadn’t had a new opening in a long, long time.
“When are you taking this trip?” he asked to get her talking. Who was this guy who had Maggie so reluctant to talk?
“Valentine’s Day, of course.” She burst from her silence with a dramatic sigh. “The ancient celebration of amore. It’s perfect.” Then she grinned. “Besides, Lyn and Charles are closing the office on Monday for a long weekend, and I can’t afford to miss much work. I don’t know if there’s availability, though. I couldn’t find more information on the Web site.”
“You’ve still got two weeks. You might luck out.” He set his mug back on the table.
They lapsed back into silence, Maggie looking even twitchier than before. Then she drew a deep breath—steeling herself for the confession, Sam guessed.
She unfolded her legs, the ridiculous Gumby heads flopping wildly as she planted her feet on the floor and eagerly leaned toward him. “Sam, I’d like you to come with me. I can’t go alone, so I want you to be my cover, help me observe how couples reignite their passion at this superclub.”
Observe. He’d like to observe all right. Visions of harem girl Maggie flickered in his head again, earning a physical response from his body and kicking in his pride. A lethal combination. His instincts were up. And Sam had based his entire career on his instincts.
“You won’t be distracted by the sexual atmosphere. Not to mention that I trust your judgment. And since you’re familiar with long-term relationships, your input will be invaluable.”
Sam didn’t need a sexual atmosphere to be distracted by the idea of having sex with Maggie. He’d been preoccupied with that subject for years. He’d even tried to bridge the distance between friendship and romance before. One near miss in high school. Maggie had never put two and two together. What she’d dismissed as his temporary lapse of sanity had actually been his amateurish attempt to pursue her. Their friendship had emerged unscathed that go-around.
He hadn’t been so lucky in college.
That time experience had been on his side, but good fortune hadn’t. While he’d learned the nuances of seduction by then, Maggie had been horrified. His plans to woo her at the Fall Harvest Celebration had quickly become aborted plans, when she told him he was too good of a friend to risk losing with a romance that, given her track record, would end in disaster.
Maggie believed their relationship survived because sex wasn’t involved. Here was an opportunity to change her mind.
She watched him breathlessly, hands clamped before her, perched so far on the edge of the couch she’d probably fall off if he touched her. Her eyes glowed with excitement, and she looked so alive, so totally beautiful that he almost didn’t mind the possibility of making a fool of himself again.
“Sam?” she urged. “Come at this from the vacation angle. All you do is work. You’re long overdue a break, and here’s the perfect opportunity.”
The perfect opportunity, all right, to convince her they could be much more than friends.
The bottom line was, Sam had devoted years to insinuating himself into Maggie’s life, trying to prove he wasn’t as erratic as her dad, who was far too preoccupied with his fourth wife to make time for his daughter. Time to risk another crash for a high-yield gain. He was damned tired of trying, and waiting. He wanted a return on his investment.
He wanted Maggie, not just as a friend, but as a lover.
“I’ll go,” he said, pointedly ignoring the icy feeling of déjà vu that made his heart kick harder.
“You don’t mind pretending to be a couple? You won’t have to do anything except be my escort, enjoy the facilities and watch people. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Not a problem.” But he planned to be more than an escort.
“Then it’s a deal.” Her sweet pink mouth curved in a smile as she extended her hand.
Sam captured it, lifted it to his lips. He pressed his mouth to her skin. “It’s a deal.”
His words came out no more than a gravelly whisper against the silky flesh of her wrist. The faint hint of orange blossoms mingled with the fragrance that was Maggie’s alone, and the moment became charged. His senses shot to life, his blood practically humming through his veins.
She tasted warm and sweet and feminine. Maggie. The woman he intended to make his own. And while his own needy reaction to their closeness didn’t surprise him, Maggie’s did.
She shivered. There was no denying that she recognized the connection between them. She couldn’t hide the surprise in her wide eyes, the goose bumps that rippled along her skin.