Authors: Suzanne Brockmann
The Kissing Game (20 page)
I'm going to pretend you never said that. I never heard those words.”
“But, Francine—”
“Simon,
please.
I
know
you.”
There were tears in her eyes, threatening to overflow, and Simon backed down. “All right. You win.”
He was rewarded by a kiss and a sweetly sad smile.
“I'm so tired,” Frankie murmured. “Mind if I close my eyes?”
He pushed her hair back from her face. “Not if you don't mind if I wake you up later.”
She smiled sleepily. “For more dancing to the music from toilet paper commercials? Definitely.”
She sighed and shifted into a more comfortable position, her movement taking her out of his arms and turning her away from him. She was already asleep, Simon realized, her breathing slow and steady.
Even in her sleep she was taking care not to cling to him. Even in her sleep she was careful to give him space, to keep her distance.
She said she knew him. But she didn't. She didn't believe him when he spoke directly from his heart.
Of course, she hadn't had the opportunity to read
his
diaries. Of course, he hadn't kept diaries, so that put them both at a disadvantage.
But he
did
love her. And he wanted to marry her. Not in four months. Now. He wanted to know today that she was his not just for the next four months, but until the end of time. He wanted that with a conviction that crushed all of his fear, that left him without a single lingering doubt.
But how to make Frankie believe him?
SIMON QUIETLY SLIPPED
out of bed and gathered his clothes from the floor. He went into the hotel suite's living room, closing the bedroom door gently behind him.
He quickly got dressed, then picked up the telephone and dialed the resort's front desk. “Front desk. How can I help you?” Simon blinked, recognizing the smoky voice on the other end, made raspy from a two-pack-a-day nicotine habit. “Pres?” he asked the resort owner. “What the hell are
you
doing working the front desk?”
“Simon Hunt.” Preston Seaholm recognized Simon's voice as well. If he was at all curious as to why Simon was staying in one of his most expensive rooms when he had a perfectly good house on Sunrise Key, he didn't say a word. “My night con cierge called to say he'd be late, and my evening concierge couldn't stay—hot date, I think. I actually like to fill in every now and then—keeps my finger on the pulse of the place. Now, if I could only find a day guy who's as dependable—”
Simon sat up. “Are you looking? Because I recently stayed at the Parker House in Boston, and in my book, there's a concierge up there who gets a twenty on a scale from one to ten. His name's Dominic Defeo, and he's worth top dollar. More. And whatever you pay him, you'll get twice your money's worth. Call him—tell him you're a friend of mine.”
Simon could hear Preston writing the name down. “I will. Thanks for the tip. God, if this works out, I'll owe you one. Oh …. here's Manuel now.” There was a pause, then Simon heard Pres say, “No, no—I've got this one, thanks. It's a friend of mine.” Pres returned his attention to
Simon. “So like I said at the start of this call, how can I help you?”
“I need a notebook,” Simon said.
“Hmm. I know I have some legal pads in my office.”
“It's got to be spiral bound.”
“Like something a kid would use for school?”
“Exactly.”
“I've seen them at the convenience store downtown,” Pres said. “It's open for another …. twenty minutes.”
“Any chance I can get someone to run out and pick one up for me? I can't leave to get it myself.”
“It's that important?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it's not a problem. Now that Manny's here, I can do it myself.”
“You …. ?”
“See you in a few.”
“Don't you even want to know what I need the notebook for?”
Preston laughed. “Absolutely. But right now I'm your host. It would be rude to ask. But you better believe the day you check out of here, I'm going to show up at your office as your
friend,
and then you're going to tell me what this is all about. And it better be good.”
“Oh, it is,” Simon said with a slow smile. “It's incredibly good.”
Frankie woke up as Simon slipped into bed beside her and kissed her.
Sunlight was streaming in beneath the heavy curtains and there was the most wonderful fragrant aroma wafting through the air from the other room.
Simon's kisses tasted like mocha-flavored coffee and croissants. How early had he gotten up and called room service?
“What time is it?” she asked.
He drew her into his arms and kissed her again. “Almost seven. Time for breakfast.”
“Seven?” Frankie pulled back from the hypnotizing warmth of his body and the exquisite sensation of their legs tangled together, skin against skin. She could feel his arousal against her, see a reflection of his desire in his eyes. “You're not a morning person. Since when do
you
get up before seven?”
“I didn't exactly
get
up,” he said cryptically.
“Then who ordered the room service?”
He just smiled and kissed her again. This time he pushed her away from him when she would have deepened their kiss. “Just go have breakfast.”
Frankie was very confused. “You want me to get out of bed …. now?” He was clearly as hot for her as she was for him, yet he wanted her to… have breakfast.
He gave her another gentle push. “Go.”
There was a gorgeous silk robe lying at the end of the bed, and Simon reached for it, handing it to her.
She had to laugh. “Simon …. can't we have breakfast
later?
I want to stay in bed. And I couldn't miss noticing that you—”
“I'll be here when you're done.”
Now she was really stumped. “You're not having breakfast?”
“I had mine already.” He smiled at her. “Go. Humor me.”
Simon settled himself back into the bed as Frankie gazed at him, eyes narrowed. He looked tired, as if he'd been up all night. “What's going on?”
He just smiled.
Frankie pulled on the bathrobe, the silk smooth against her skin, and tied the belt. Giving him one last, long look, she went out the bedroom door and into the living room.
The table on the screened-in balcony was covered with a linen cloth and set with a sumptuous breakfast feast. There was fresh fruit of all kinds, an elegant thermos of coffee, a basket of freshly baked breads and pastries—including croissants, her favorite. There was juice and jam and butter and honey. And right in the middle of the plate that he had set for her was a notebook. A spiral-bound notebook.
It looked exactly like the inexpensive notebooks she'd used as makeshift diaries since she'd been old enough to write.
Curious, she opened the cover to the front page.
Her name was on it, as well as today's date. But it had another date too. It had an end date listed as nearly a year from now.
And the handwriting wasn't hers. It was Simon's.
What was going on?
She sat down in the chair and, pouring herself a cup of that fragrant coffee, she turned the page.
April 28th,
it said at the top. That was today.
“Simon arranged for the most incredible breakfast this morning,” she read. “It was waiting for me when I woke up. After breakfast we made love all morning long, and he told me again that he loves me. I'm starting to believe him …. “
What the hell …. ?
Had Simon written diary entries for events that hadn't even happened?
She leafed through the notebook, and indeed, it was entirely filled, from front to back, with his bold handwriting. This was too bizarre. He'd written this as if he were
her,
recounting actual events.
She turned back to the first page.
He told me again that he loves me. I'm starting to believe him ….
She quickly turned to the next page.
April 30th. Simon helped me move the last of Alice Winfield's things from her house on Pelican Street. He knew how difficult it would be for me to see the house standing empty, with that forlorn-looking For Sale
sign out front. We walked through it together, and he kissed me in every room.
I told him how I'd always dreamed about living in that big old house, how as a kid I'd imagined Gram and me moving in with Alice and staying up late playing gin rummy and Yahtzee every night. As we stood in the parlor, looking out the windows at the view of the ocean, Simon took my hand and asked me to marry him.”
Frankie's heart was in her throat.
Before I could say a word, he told me to give him a chance—to hear him out. He told me that he loved me—that he's never loved anyone in his life the way that he loves me. He told me that he's spent his whole life running from that kind of love, afraid that he would end up trapped. He told me that the love he feels for me doesn't trap him—it sets him free ….
Frankie's eyes blurred with tears, and she blinked them back, wanting to read more,
needing
to read
more of the words he'd obviously stayed up all night to write.
He said he wants to know I'm always going to be there, every single day, for the rest of his life. He said that I was right when I told him, that someday he'd meet a woman that he simply couldn't live without, a woman who was his soul mate, a woman to whom he'd promise to be faithful and true—a woman to whom he'd never break those promises.
He said he must be the biggest fool on the key, because he met that woman a lifetime ago, and it took him twenty years to figure out that it was me he wanted. But now that he's finally got his act together, he said he couldn't wait for four months to tell me all of this.
He wants forever, and he wants it to start today.
Before I could answer, he kissed me, and I could feel him shaking. He was so frightened that I wouldn't believe him—I thought that he might even cry.
He asked me again to marry him, and then he asked me to buy this house with him—to make it ours, to live in happily ever after.
There was plenty of room for both of our offices, he told me, as if I'd need further convincing. And lots of bedrooms in case we wanted to have kids. “Do you want to have kids?” he asked. “Because if you want, I would truly love to have kids—with you.”
I answered him with a kiss.
“I love you,” he said, and I knew it was true.
Wiping tears from her face, Frankie turned the page, reading quickly through the months of May and June, unable to keep from laughing as she took in Simon's account of their late spring wedding on the beach, the bride in a white Speedo bathing suit. Each entry ended the same way, with Simon declaring his love, and Frankie knowing that it was true.
July sped by just as quickly, with the two of them settling into the house on Pelican Street. Both of their businesses thrived. Frankie frequently accompanied
Simon on his buying trips, and he continued to act as her Dr. Watson when she took on new private investigations. And then came August.
August 29th. Simon went to Orlando this morning and didn't get back until late tonight. I couldn't help but remember that deal we made back in April—the one that said we'd split come the end of August. I was still awake when Simon came home, and I reminded him of that, and asked him, now that we've been married nearly two months, if he had any regrets.
He told me the only thing he regrets is that he didn't marry me ten years ago. He told me that as much as he loved me in April, he loves me even more now. He told me never to doubt that, ever.
I believed him. And then I told him the news I knew for certain just this morning. I'm pregnant. We're going to have a child.
Simon's response amazed me. He wept. And then he laughed. And then he kissed me. He broke out a bottle of his special
nonalcoholic champagne, and we drank it and danced on the back porch until the early hours of the morning, both so incredibly happy ….
Frankie closed the notebook, unable to read any more, not needing to read any more.
He loved her. He truly wanted to marry her.
Simon was exhausted, but there was no way on earth he was going to fall asleep.
He could hear Frankie from where she was sitting, out on the balcony. He heard her pour herself a cup of coffee, he heard the pages of the notebook turning as she read his words.
Please God, he prayed. Let this work.
Every now and then he heard her laugh. Laughter was a good sign, wasn't it?
And then he heard the sound of the chair scraping back as she stood up, and he knew this was it. The moment of truth. Literally. Simon could feel his heart pounding.
And then Frankie stood in the doorway.
“I can't believe you did that,” she said. “Were you up all night?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
She came into the room, moving closer, and he saw that her eyes were wet. “You really love me.”
He laughed with frustration. “God, if you still have to ask, then I better get up and go write some more.”
“I wasn't asking,” Frankie said. “I was …. remarking. With amazement.”
“Marry me, Frankie.”
She caught her breath in what was half sob, half laughter. “You're not supposed to ask me until the day after tomorrow.”
“I don't want to wait that long.”
Frankie's tears threatened to overflow, magnifying the love he could see in her eyes. “I don't want to either.”
“Marry me,” Simon whispered again.
She fell into his arms and answered him with a kiss.
“I love you,” he told her.
And she believed him.
Since her explosion onto the publishing scene more than ten years ago, SUZANNE BROCKMANN has written over forty books and is now widely recognized as one of the leading voices in romantic suspense. Her work has earned her repeated appearances on
USA Today
and
New York Times
bestseller lists, as well as numerous awards, including the Ro mance Writers of America's #1 Favorite Book of the Year three years running—in 2000, 2001, and 2002—two RITA awards, and many
Romantic Times
Reviewer's Choice Awards. Suzanne lives west of Boston with her husband, Dell author Ed Gaffney. Visit her website at
www.SuzanneBrockmann.com
.
