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“That must have taken his breath away.”
“
It did. But he came back with ‘jaw’ off my ‘jargon’ and ‘wax’ off ‘pewit.’ Still, it was obvious that we weren’t in the same league—I never do three-letter words unless I’m desperate. By the time I made ‘viscacha,’ he was down to his briefs and one sock. I still had my slip and everything under it.” Her forehead puckered in a frown. “That’s when it happened.”
“I’m breathless with anticipation.”
“He hit me with ‘qaid.’”
“There’s no such word.”
“Oh yes there is. A Northern African tribal leader, although generally only world-class Scrabble players and crossword addicts know it.”
“And?”
“Don’t you see? The son of a bitch was hustling me!”
“Dear God.”
“To make a long story short, he laid ‘zebu’ in on a horizontal and then capped it with ‘zloty’ on the vertical. My ‘quail’ looked pretty pitiful after that, but worse was to come.”
“I don’t know if I can bear the tension.”
“‘Phlox’ on a triple word score.”
“That devil.”
Chapter 25
By Christmas, Fleur had picked up three great new clients—two actors and a singer. Alexi hadn’t made any new moves against her, and the old stories about her broken contracts seem to be fading. The gossip about her relationship with Jake continued, but word had started to leak that he was writing again, and the gossip no longer held as much sting. Rough Harbor’s first album was performing above expectations, and the unqualified success of Michel’s collection was still bringing an avalanche of good publicity. When Kissy got rave reviews after her play premiered on January 3, Fleur felt as if all her own dreams were coming true. So why wasn’t she happier? She avoided probing her inner psyche too deeply by working even harder.
Jake stopped showing up for their morning run, and when she went upstairs to check on him, he barely spoke. He’d been working on his book for nearly three months, and he’d grown increasingly gaunt. His hair hung long over his collar, and he forgot to shave for days at a time.
One cold Friday night in the second week of January, something awakened her. Total silence. What had happened to the typewriter? She stirred.
“It’s okay, Flower,” a rough voice whispered. “It’s just me.”
The dim lights sifting in from her winter garden illuminated the room just enough so she could see Jake hunched in a chair not far from her bed, his rangy legs stretched in front of him.
“What are you doing?” she muttered.
“Watching you sleep.” His voice was as soft and dark as the night room. “The light’s a paintbrush in your hair. Do you remember how we wrapped your hair around us when we made love?”
The blood rushed through her sleep-heavy body. “I remember.”
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said raggedly. “You got caught in the crossfire.”
She didn’t want to think about the past. “That was a long time ago. I’m not so naïve now.”
“I don’t know about that.” His voice developed an edge. “For somebody who wants me to believe she’s made a career out of sleeping around, you don’t seem to have a lot of men coming through here.”
She wanted him to stay soft and sweet. She wanted him talking about paintbrushes and the light in her hair. “Not with you living over my head, that’s for sure. We go to their places.”
“Is that so?” Slowly he uncurled from the chair and began unbuttoning his shirt. “If you’re passing it out for free, I guess it’s time I took my turn.”
She bolted up in bed. “I’m not passing it out for free!”
He stripped off his shirt. “This could have happened between us months ago. All you had to do was ask.”
