Plotting to Win (13 page)

She answered him, eagerly, passionately. Her eyes closed and when he moved his head to cover more of her, he felt her lashes flicker against his cheek. With one hand, he gently shut her laptop. With the other, he cupped her face. He deepened the kiss, delving with his tongue, until she gave a tiny moan.

Her own tongue flicked in his mouth and paused for a second before sliding around his in the timeless mating dance.

As he pulled away from her, she playfully sucked his bottom lip just for a second, a very brief, way too short second.

He hated to pull away, but the further he permitted this to go, the less self-control he would have. He wanted nothing more than to swipe her laptop off the table, pull her to his side, tear off her pants and whatever she was hiding underneath, and bury his face and his cock — it didn’t matter which — into what he imagined was the sexiest pussy on earth.

Sitting back in his chair, he caught his breath and tried to calm his pounding his heart … and other things, as he watched her. How would she react? Would she hate him? Slap him? Deny she’d enjoyed it? Regret it even?

Her lashes fluttered before her eyes widened. A hand went to her open mouth. “Oh my God.”

Victor straightened. “You’re welcome. I’ve been called —”

“Oh, Victor, don’t ruin the moment.” She shook her head, but her smile belied her stern words. “Victor, you do realize we’re in camera zone?” Redness tinted the tops of her cheeks.

Oh shit
. In his haste to steal the moment, he’d forgotten about that. He’d been too worried about the other contestants catching them. He cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. It was
harder
than all get out to get comfortable.

“I … I didn’t —” Trying to come up with something witty to say to break the awkwardness rising between them, he blurted, “Just think of the ratings.”

Instead of getting the laugh he expected, her face twisted into an expression of hurt and anger. “Is that why you did it? Or was this just another attempt to throw me off my game?”

“No, no, I was just making a joke. Felicity —”

She rose, and he reached to stop her, but she stepped away from him, only turning to glare at him with watery eyes. “My heart, my feelings are not a joke, Victor Guzman, and I’d appreciate you leaving me alone from now on.”

“But, Felicity, you got this all wrong.”

He stood, intending to follow her out the doorway, to explain that hadn’t been it at all, when a voice halted him from the stairwell entrance. “Victor, you need to come with me,” Mr. Brown said in an emotionless tone.

Oh, fuck me
.

How could he? Really? How could he? And how could she fall for it? The handsome Latino had made it clear from the beginning he wasn’t here to make friends, that he was going to distract her to the point of losing, and she’d played right into his hands, as dumb as some of the heroines in the romance novels she struggled so hard to avoid writing.

She had no one to blame but herself for falling for it and for him.

Blinking away tears of frustration, Felicity wiped the remnants of his kiss from her lips with the back of her hand. Just as he’d said, everyone was in the game room perched on chairs or stools, watching the first episode of
The Next Bestseller
. She plopped down next to Dez, who barely looked her way, on a loveseat and pretended to watch the show. On the screen, she was turned, her back hunched just a bit, while Carmen used it as a desk to write her name on the paper for the writer’s cave drawing.

She’d come onto this show naïve, wearing rose-colored blinkers.

Well, no more.

Did they see that already? Am I in trouble for that kiss? I won’t apologize for it, not to them or to her. I’m not sorry, even though she’s totally twisted my reasons behind it
.

Heart pounding, throat dry, Victor tried to look as confident as he’d felt the first day of the show as he followed Allen to a meeting room downstairs. He wondered if this is where Felicity had come to discuss Tiffani’s story theft.

A shiny wooden table only big enough for four to sit around it accompanied by four black leather chairs awaited him. Ophelia sat at the head. He’d expect no less. The woman seemed to run this show. To her right was Ms. Roberts. Mr. Brown took the seat to her left. This left him the chair across from Ophelia. A white phone with speakers sat in the center of the table.

“Have a seat,” the talk show host instructed with a nod.

He complied, clasping the armrests with clammy hands. “Is there a problem?”

“We have bad news.” Ophelia’s face — normally hard and calculating — softened. “We just received notification that your mother is in the hospital.” She paused to glance down at a piece of paper in her hands. She read, “Caregiver called 9-1-1 at 1:00 p.m. Maria Guzman had a stroke and is now in Miami Medical’s ICU. She’s in a coma.” Ophelia slid the sheet across the table toward him, her eyes filled with sympathy. “Here are all the details. We notified you as soon as we got the call. I’m very sorry.”

Nicole reached over, placed a cool hand over his, and squeezed. “We’re all sorry. You do what you need to do.”

Victor felt as though he’d been slammed with a two-by-four in the chest. He hadn’t been there for her. Again, he’d failed her.

“I need to make some phone calls and possibly —” He couldn’t say it aloud. It sounded too much like quitting, but he was going to have to leave the show.

Ophelia cleared her throat. “The show will not hold you to your contract in light of this. Family comes first. You may leave today if you choose to do so.”

He nodded and swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“You may use this phone for all your telephone calls. In case you decide to stay with us …” Mr. Brown paused at this, his facial expression implying the implausibility of that. After all, what good son would stay on a TV show to make 100,000 dollars instead of being with his ailing mother? “…your conversations will be recorded to ensure nothing is said about the show. None of the recording will be revealed to the public or the press, however.” He steepled his fingers in front of him before adding, “None of this will be revealed on the show at all unless you wish it to be so.”

The three judges rose and filed out the door, patting him on the back and murmuring their sympathies as they filed out.

Left in the silence of the room, Victor took a shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair. Guilt washed over him. Just a few minutes ago, he’d been more concerned with being kicked off the show for kissing a girl. He should have been concerned about his mother first and foremost, not getting distracted by a woman — no matter how beautiful or sweet she was.

He dragged the phone toward him and lifted the receiver. With a shaky hand, he pressed the numbers typed onto the paper in front of him.

“Miami Medical, this is Jacinta. Can I help you?”

“This is Victor Guzman. My mother … Maria Guzman was admitted today. I need to talk to her doctor.”

Victor had no idea how long he stayed in the conference room, staring at the phone, weighing his options, the doctor’s words repeating over and over in his mind.

She’s in a coma. She’s getting the best of care. There’s no telling when or if she will wake
.

When she did wake — and she would — there was no doubt he had to provide full time nursing now. The first stroke had rendered her speechless. This second stroke was probably going to paralyze her. And he wasn’t putting his mother in a home. No way, no how.

He ran his hands through his hair and left them there, holding his head, his elbows propped on the table.

There was nothing he wanted more than to pack up his bags and leave the show right now, to be by her side when she woke, even if she didn’t know who he was. But she was getting the best of care. What good would it do to sit there by her bedside, waiting, worrying, watching? She was asleep, comfortable, and not ready to be moved yet.

Winning this show would make him more money than he normally made in a year. It would take care of her. The least he could do was make her as comfortable as possible in the last stage of her life.

With new resolve, he pushed away from the table and gathered the papers and notes in front of him. He’d asked for a daily report and immediate notification should her situation change. The show had wasted no time in notifying him of this emergency, and he had full confidence they would continue to do so.

He’d simply have to win. No more dallying with pretty contestants. No more tender kisses or heartfelt talks. It was time to focus.

The door shut behind him as he went in search of the judges to give them his decision.

“The fireplace room is up for dibs again. Do any of you wish to take it as your writer’s cave?” Nicole stood before the five of them, glancing back and forth.

“I do.” Felicity didn’t hesitate this time. The sooner she got away from Victor Guzman and the possibility of more scorching kisses, the better. That kiss and the feelings it had evoked within her was distracting her to pieces, and despite the fact he hadn’t spoken to her since, being across the room instead of right next to him was probably a good idea. She needed to get her mind in the game.

Plus, she wasn’t feeling very romantic lately. Maybe the room would help her get her groove back, get her mind on her heroes,
real
heroes who didn’t mess with women’s feelings just to win game shows.

“Does anyone wish to challenge Felicity for it?” Nicole asked.

Felicity glanced at Dez, expecting him to challenge her for it. He couldn’t be that happy writing in the bathtub.

To her surprise, he merely shook his head. “I think that room may be bad luck.”

Roy chuckled. “You one of them superstitious types?”

Dez pushed his glasses up his nose. “Two people have been eliminated, both were writing in that room. Need I say more?”

He had a point. Luckily, Felicity wasn’t the superstitious type.

“I challenge her.”

Eyes widened and heads turned. Nobody had been expecting
her
to speak up for it.

“Carmen?” Confusion crossed Nicole’s features. “You want to part with the executive office?”

Carmen rolled a cigarette languidly between her fingers and looked up straight into Felicity’s surprised gaze. “I sure do.”

What room you wanting?
The other woman’s casual question from day one came back to her. At the time, Carmen had been acting as if they were going to be buddies.

So much for that
.

She’s just wanting it because she knows I wanted it. Fine, I’ll out-write her
.

“Well, I have two of you, so that means a writing challenge. Please come downstairs with me.” Nicole gestured for them to follow her down the stairs.

Felicity rose to follow, purposely not glancing in Victor’s direction — if that kiss had meant anything to him, he would have spoken to her by now, not be giving her the silent treatment, right? — cracking her knuckles as she trudged down the steps. She could almost feel Carmen breathing down her neck.

Everyone was trying to throw her
off
her game — they were constantly reminding her of that fact — but she was just getting on it.

“We are gathered here for your third challenge. The winner of this challenge will be allowed to manipulate the third elimination challenge,” the show’s host began her spiel. The garish neon green of her suit almost hurt his eyes. “At this point, each and every one of you should be taking this very seriously. We started with seven. There are now five. One of you will be going home this week. One of you will go on to become the next bestseller, 100,000 dollars richer, with a publishing contract in hand.”

Victor struggled to focus, to get his mind off Felicity, her soft lips, the hurt glances she cast his way when she thought he wasn’t looking. Did she really think he’d kissed her for ratings? Well, it was better if she did.

He hadn’t spoken to her since, and he knew it was messing with her head, but despite his desire to win, that wasn’t his agenda.

He had to stay away from her to save himself, to save himself from distraction, to save himself from that accusing look of appalled shock that would cross her face if she knew the truth.

“Today’s guest is a social media coach. Mari Fouts has been a social networking coach for five years, and she’s going to be judging you today.” Ophelia stepped aside and began clapping for the tall, thin lady with short black hair who stepped from behind the screen.

“Hello, everyone. Ms. West has done a great job introducing me already, so I’ll get right down to business. With today’s social media, there are a thousand ways to promote your book, but it is now flooded with everything and everyone. It’s my job to help authors stand out above the rest, make themselves visible, and attract readers utilizing everything from Facebook, blogging, Yahoo, Pinterest. You name it, I help authors use it.”

Roy cleared his throat and raised his hand. At her nod, he asked, “Do people hire you just to tell them what to do?”

Victor had been wondering the same thing.

“Yes. You could say that.” The woman beamed at them. “I prefer the word advise. I advise them on what to say or how to present themselves on certain social media sites as well as determine what type of marketing and promotion works best for their type of book. I’ve helped at least fifty bestselling authors attain their success.”

“Can we get some names?” Victor inserted. He was trying hard to get good and distracted by the challenge at hand.

“I’m afraid not. Confidentiality clauses and all that.”

“I thought the publisher did all this.” Carmen crossed her arms and glared slightly. She probably thought this was another waste-of-time challenge.

“Not any more,” Mari replied. “With the amount of books releasing daily now, it takes a lot more than publisher marketing. You must market too, and the key is to — oh, I better not say, because that’s what this challenge is about.” She winked in their general direction before turning to Ophelia. “Ophelia.”

“Ms. Fouts is right. Your challenge today is to start a social networking platform. For today only, the Internet will be provided in your writers’ caves. You will be assigned one book to promote, a book from your chosen genre, and you will have five hours to try and sell a few copies via social media. You are not allowed to bribe readers or spend money. The Amazon link to your ‘book’ is waiting for you in your caves. That is the link you will promote.” Ophelia turned her gaze on Felicity. “Felicity, you now have the fireplace cave. Your story won the most votes with our viewers and readers. Congratulations.” Ophelia’s lips twitched. “I find it rather fitting you chose to write about a chimney sweep and a lady of the manor.”