Sandpiper Way (Cedar Cove #8)(81)

Again James tried to get away, and this time she stopped him by sitting on his lap. “James,” she whispered, pressing her hands against the sides of his face. She couldn’t resist, so she kissed him.

Her kisses seemed to calm him. She could see the pulse in his neck pounding frantically. “Twenty years ago, you were the chess prodigy, not Bobby.”

He looked away, refusing to meet her gaze. “I had a nervous breakdown.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t played chess since I was thirteen.”

She nodded. By dint of questioning and appearing to know more than she did, she’d persuaded the reporter to fill in what happened next. James and Bobby were rivals. James’s parents drove him, expecting perfection, demanding that he beat Bobby each and every time. Then he’d lost the biggest chess match of his career and ended up in a mental hospital.

After James was released, he never played again. At least not publicly, according to the reporter, but Christie suspected that was the case in his private life, too. As far as the chess world was concerned, James Gardner had dropped off the face of the earth. He disappeared, and despite numerous and varied efforts to locate him over the next few years, he was never seen or heard from again.

Apparently he’d been forgotten. From the questions the reporter asked, she knew James’s appearance had changed. He’d shown her a photograph of James at thirteen. The soft features of early adolescence had hardened, become defined. His hair had darkened. He’d shot up ten inches or more. He didn’t look the same and yet she’d recognized him. She hadn’t tried to hide that recognition from the reporter; there was no point. As the man, a stringer for one of the newspaper syndicates, had said, the information was out there, hidden in articles, public records, even photographs, if anyone cared to search for it.

“Bobby Polgar was my only friend back then,” James murmured.

“Yes.”

“He still is.”

“You’re wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

Christie straightened. “I’m your friend, too.”

“How did this reporter find me?”

“I don’t think it was that difficult. He started with the kidnapping. He decided there was more to that story, so he dug up information about you and Bobby. He did the research, asked the questions and one thing led to another.”

“When will it be published? His article.”

“Soon.”

His arms circled her waist and he held her as if he intended never to let her go.

His disappearance from the chess world, the reporter had said, seemed particularly puzzling because he hadn’t entirely disappeared. He remained on the fringes, since he took Bobby to all his matches. That had begun when both men were in their early twenties. It must have felt risky at first, even staying in the background, but people hadn’t really noticed him.

“Bobby was the only one who cared,” James told her. “He came to see me in the hospital.”

Christie had always been aware of Bobby’s kindness and loyalty. When she met him, she’d been envious of Teri, unable to understand why her sister should have all the luck.

She’d even thought she could steal him away from Teri. Bobby, however, had quickly disabused her of that notion. He was a one-woman man, and he’d made sure Christie knew that.

“You never played chess again?” she asked, her head still on his shoulder. “At home? By yourself or with Bobby?”

“Never. I have the mind for it, but not the heart.” His hand was warm on her back. “Bobby has both. He has the heart of a champion, far more than I ever did.”

Christie sighed. Like her sister, she barely understood the rudiments of the game and didn’t have the patience or the interest to learn.

“What do you do with your time?” she asked. He always seemed to be busy and she wondered if he’d tell her. She sensed that he didn’t want anyone intruding on his life.

“This and that,” he told her. “I read, especially history. But mostly I work on creating computer games. That’s my creative outlet. I…I don’t like being in front of the public.”

Christie realized that James didn’t need or want much interaction with others. He seemed happy with his own company, his own thoughts and routines.

“It keeps me busy when I’m not driving for Bobby,” he added.

Christie could have stayed exactly as she was at that moment and found contentment. Was this love? She couldn’t say; Christie wasn’t sure she knew what it was to be in love. Lust, passion, desire—those feelings were familiar to her. But they never lasted. Every single time, what looked like a promising relationship had failed. The flames of attraction always died out, leaving nothing but bitterness and anger behind.

In the past she’d been quick to jump into bed, and the fact that she hadn’t slept with James, that they’d only kissed on three occasions, would shock her previous lovers. They’d wonder if there was something wrong with her—or with James. The reality was that for the first time there was something right.

“You know my secrets, too,” she said. “And mine are a lot more disreputable than yours.” She wished he’d told her about his past earlier. She thought he might have continued to keep it to himself if the reporter hadn’t shown up today. That hurt, but she tried not to dwell on it.