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

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.
    He wondered if she thought the whole place was lame.
    “I didn’t see you living someplace like this.”
    “Someplace like what?” He hated the defensive note in his voice.
    “It’s homey,” she said. “It seems really comfortable.”
    “What, I’m not comfortable?” He asked it with a small chuckle.
    She turned to him, her eyes darkening, like the deep, velvety purple of wet pansies. “You’re anything but comfortable, darling,” she purred.
    “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, his body tightening. He got a whiff of her perfume: something floral, with dominant notes of violet and lilac. She was wearing a dress again; formfitting this time, like something out of a Fellini movie. She looked like a silver-screen goddess. “Why aren’t you an actress?” he blurted out.
    She turned to him, amused. “Sorry?”
    “Nothing. Never mind.” So much for home-court advantage. He started to gesture her over to one of the couches, then remembered that their track record with couches was spotty at best. Instead, he motioned her toward the deck. “Can I get you something to drink?”
    “No, thanks. I’d rather get this over with.”
    Well. Obviously she wasn’t here to seduce him. He wasn’t sure what he should feel about that. He’d damned well better be relieved, he scolded himself. They sat at the café table he’d set up. She was taking in the view. “Very nice,” she said softly.
    “So, what do you have to show me?”
    She pulled out a small portable DVD player. “Here you go.”
    He turned it on, then watched. The quality wasn’t bad for a handheld, he realized; he also realized that she’d filmed herself in her own living room. He’d know that couch anywhere.
    Enough with the couches. Focus.
    He frowned.
    “Hi!” the screen version of Juliana said brightly. “My name’s Juliana Mayfield, and these are my five rules for living....”
    He watched, grinning slightly, as she went through a quick, five-minute spiel, largely full of platitudes of the fortune-cookie variety, ending with a wink and a smile so dazzlingly bright that it could probably cause a sunburn. He glanced at her, his eyebrow quirking in question.
    She was smiling, too, although her eyes were fierce. “First challenge was filming something about my life rules,” she said, then pointed to the video. “That takes care of that. And I’ve got here two letters that I wrote to my parents, telling them how I felt about them. I made copies before I sent them, just in case.” She handed them over. She also handed over a candy bar.
    “Thanks, I’m not hungry,” he said, and she laughed.
    “That’s not for you.