Read Online The Player's Club: Lincoln by Cathy Yardley - Free Book Online

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