The Player's Club: Lincoln (8 page)

She made her way past the rows of golfers until she found the man she was hunting for.

“Stephen! I can’t believe you didn’t make it to my birthday party,” Juliana said, with her sexiest pout.

Stephen Trainer, television producer, looked over at her and grimaced. “I can’t believe you stalked me to a driving range to ram your reality-show pitch down my throat.”

“You’re up in the Bay Area, in my neck of the woods, which is why I invited you to my party,” she said, sitting on a folding chair that was in his “driving” area. She crossed her legs, smirking slightly when he paused in his swing to check them out. He wasn’t Lincoln, she thought smugly, then frowned.

Stop thinking about Lincoln.

“And I’m not ramming anything down your throat,” she soothed. “How do you know I’m not just here to whack a few balls around?”

“I’ll bet that’s exactly what you’re here to do,” he muttered, swinging the club and connecting with a loud
thwack.
“I’m just afraid they’re going to be mine.”

She laughed. “Come on, Stephen. I know you read my pitch.”

He sighed, resting on his club for a moment. “I know, I remember the log line. ‘
Infamous,
the wild and crazy life of Juliana Mayfield—daughter of the famous Mayfield acting clan and a hot French model. Wannabe actress, model and socialite. Sort of like the poor man’s Angelina Jolie, with maybe a little Paris Hilton thrown in—all the partying, not quite all the money. Am I missing anything?”

She felt a flush of heat. “I’m not the poor man’s anything.”

“Trust me, that’s probably the most appealing label,” he said callously, whacking another golf ball.

Idly she shot a glance at the expensive golf bag propped up behind the paunchy television producer as he teed off.
What club would you use to pound some manners into a shortsighted TV exec? One of the woods? Maybe the nine iron?

“Celebutantes aren’t selling right now, Jules,” he said. “I skipped your birthday party because I already knew what I was going to see. Some velvet rope stuff, rich B-listers and C-listers getting outrageous. It’s been done to death. Other than some product tie-ins with maybe a teeny-bop clothing line, which wouldn’t do well with your other potential booze sponsors of Bacardi or Absolut, and I’m not getting a lot of buzz or bang for my buck.”

For a second, Juliana held her breath, the pain flattening her. Then she sighed. “Well, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

He looked at her, and damn him, there was
pity
in his eyes. “I’m doing you a favor,” he said, his voice gruff. “You’re going to waste your time shopping this thing around. You could be Madonna and this show wouldn’t get picked up. I’m sorry.”

She forced herself to breathe, a slow, quavering inhalation. Then she smiled. “I’ve got a new spin now. Maybe you’d find it more interesting than the, ah, ‘celebutante’ angle.”

Now he sighed, turning back to the range. “Fine. What’ve you got?”

“The Player’s Club.”

“The what?” He hit another golf ball. “Damn it. Still slicing.”

“The Player’s Club,” she repeated, leaning forward. Okay, she threw in a little cleavage. At this point, she needed all the help she could get.

“The…” Now he turned to her, and she saw it: the little gleam of interest, for both the cleavage and the club. Then he shrugged. “Bunch of crazy rich guys, right? Like a fraternity or something. Pull stunts.” He paused. “I hear the cops are pretty angry at them, they’ve pulled one too many pranks or something. What about them?”

“I’m joining.”

He laughed. “Sure you are.”

“I’m serious,” she said, lowering her voice dramatically. “I can’t get into how, but I’m a pledge.”

Definite gleam. Her heart started to pound in a good way. “So you’re going to be doing these crazy stunts?”

“As soon as I’m a member,” she said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. After all, she didn’t know
what
she was going to be doing, right? She still had to worry about the stupid challenges.

“You’re not a member.” He switched clubs, focusing on the green. “Right.”

“I’m still in the hazing portion,” she corrected. He was nibbling on the bait. Now, she just had to reel him in.

“That sounds promising. What do you have to do?”

“I’m not really supposed to talk about it,” she hedged. The challenges themselves weren’t that exciting…except the last one. “A little bit of emotional stuff, some ‘very special episode’ family time. Trust me, though, this show will get media coverage.”

“If you call the tabloids and those sleazy gossip websites ‘media,’ I guess.”

She reddened, then played her trump card. “And I’m going to pull a heist.”

Now he goggled. “You’re
what?
”

“Gonna rob something,” she said, leaning back.

He stared at her, and she watched him swallow, saw the look of calculation in his eyes.
Hooked,
she thought with a crafty smile.

“It’d be touchy, running footage where you break the law,” he said, then swallowed again as she saw common sense warring with ambition. And losing. “That’s not to say I couldn’t broker the story once you got out of jail, though. Hell, Lindsay Lohan stole a car and ran over somebody’s foot, and she just did community service. What the hell are you going to steal, anyway?”

She laughed, evading the question since she had no idea of an answer. “You’re drooling, Stephen. Make me a deal.”

He looked pained. Then he gritted his teeth.

“I need footage.”

She blinked. “What? Why?”

“Sure, this sounds great,” he said slowly. “But these guys have been underground for, what, a few years? Why the hell are they going to agree to let themselves be filmed on your say-so?”

“I’ll get the releases,” she said, standing up. “You know me.”

“Sure, you’re the sexiest steamroller I know. But that’s not enough to work in Hollywood,” he snapped back. “Not for you, anyway. If I’m going to pull this deal together, I need visuals. I need to see what this would look like, develop some sizzle. Make this work, damn it.”

She deflated. Footage? How the hell was she going to get footage? She wasn’t planning on getting the releases until she could ingratiate herself with some of the players, which probably wouldn’t be until she passed the damned challenges.

He was watching her. “Without footage,” he said, “I’m not getting a green light.”

“Fine. I’ll get some footage,” she said, tossing her hair carelessly. “It’ll be rough, but you’ll have it.”

He frowned, biting his lip. “And an episode guide. Let me know what the arc’s going to be.”

“Fine,” she repeated. “Enjoy your ball whacking.”

She certainly hadn’t enjoyed hers, she thought, and stalked off.

AFTER A WEEK OF FORCING himself not to call or stop by, Lincoln decided it was safe to check in on his newest pledge. Of course, his discipline hadn’t been able to keep him from thinking of her every day.

Still,
she
didn’t need to know that.

It was early afternoon; the sun was bright and the day warm enough that he’d decided to enjoy some iced tea out on his deck. Staring out at the panoramic view of San Francisco, he dialed Juliana’s number.

“Hello?”

He ignored the tingling sensation just the huskiness of her voice seemed to conjure up. “It’s Lincoln. I just wanted to call, see how you were doing.”

Actually, I wanted to see if maybe, please God, you’re already bored with us. Decided that instead of The Player’s Club, you were going to go to Tibet and adopt an orphanage or go skydiving nude or something.

He winced. Nude. Good grief, why couldn’t he imagine this woman with some clothes on, for God’s sake? He squirmed in his chair, then got up and paced the length of the redwood deck.

“I’m great,” she said. “In fact, I’m done.”

“Done?” He frowned, amazed that his silent prayers might have been answered so quickly. He ignored the pang that seemed to suggest disappointment. “With what? With us?”

“No, silly.” He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him silly. Maybe third grade? “I’m done with my challenges.”

He stood silent for a moment, stunned. Then he cleared his throat. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, actually, I am.” She sounded smug, triumphant. “I jumped through the hoops, just as requested. So when do I get to do something really fun? Something with the real players?”

His eyes narrowed. “Listen, you can’t just say ‘hey, I did it!’ and expect us to believe you,” he said. “Much as we trust each other, it’s not the honor system.”

“Figured you’d say something like that,” she said, still smug. “Don’t worry, Lincoln, I’ve got proof. You want to come by my condo, see for yourself?”

“No,” he said quickly, thinking of her couch…thinking of him, and her, on her couch. “Let’s meet somewhere else.” Somewhere public, perhaps, and well-lit…with absolutely no chance for privacy. “Grab a coffee. My treat.”

“Okay,” she said, then paused. “Um…there’s a narrow chance that there might be a paparazzi or two wandering around. I’m not all that big a celeb, but sometimes I make the gossip pages locally....”

“No,” he repeated, more emphatically. Then he closed his eyes. It was knee-jerk, but the advice of his childhood rang through him like a church bell:
the last thing we want is publicity.
It had been one of his mother’s only strictures, and the last thing she’d said before she died. “Sorry, I hate paparazzi. They’re leeches.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“Would they follow you from your condo?” he asked, rolling that disgusting possibility over in his mind.

“They might. I don’t know if any are around, or if it’s a slow enough day that I warrant surveillance.” Definitely a note of bitterness with that comment, he sensed. “But if I go someplace in the city, odds are about fifty-fifty I’ll have someone take my picture.”

He didn’t like those odds. “How about South San Francisco?”

“Ugh,” she said, and he could tell she was rolling her eyes. “Way too boring. Doubt they’d follow me there. Hell,
I
wouldn’t follow me there. You mean, you’d actually go all the way to SSF just to avoid a photographer?”

“It’s not avoidance,” he lied. “It’s just easier for me. I live here.”

“You live there?” she said. “Huh. Well, all right. I’ll meet you at your house.”

“Actually, there’s a café a few blocks from…”

“Hey,” she interrupted, “if I’m driving all the way out to South San Francisco, I’m going to see your house. You already invaded mine.”

He winced. He had been trying to bully her, just a little, showing up at her condo at one in the morning, so she had him there. Besides, he reasoned, he could control the situation a little better at his townhome. He’d have the home-court advantage, and no one would eavesdrop…considering she had the discretion of a peacock, it’d probably be better.

“All right.” He gave her his address.

“Fine. I’ll see you soon.” Then she hung up.

He frowned. Was he crazy, or was there a hint of sensual anticipation in her voice?

Or do you just want there to be?

He shook his head. Yes, definitely crazy.

He was still frowning a little later when she pulled her midnight-blue BMW roadster into his driveway. She stepped out, putting her sunglasses up on her head. “Nice,” she said.

“I like it.” He let her through the front door. Then waited as she took in the foyer, the living room beyond.

He’d lived there long enough that he’d stopped paying attention to the way the thing looked. Now, seeing it through her eyes, it was like seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t coldly modern or stylishly sleek, like her place. The living room had a cathedral ceiling and a fireplace; the wheat-and-amber-colored walls emitted a warm, muted glow; the brown-leather sofa and armchair were comfortable and tasteful, if not stylish. The curving staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms was a sturdy maple, more Frank Lloyd Wright than rustic. It was a man’s house, he supposed, more tailored to being lived in than being looked at. It suited him perfectly.