Skating on Thin Ice: The Men of WarHawks- Book 1

by Biggar, Jacquie

  He surprised her with a quick, hard kiss on the lips. “Stay safe, you hear me?” he whispered, and then he was gone.

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth and blinked back tears. Mac Wanowski was a good man—and she loved him.

  The door rattled across the room and Mac cursed. “It’s locked. I can’t get out.” He kicked the wooden panels, but they held strong. “Damn it, Harris. Open this door.”

  Sam’s stomach dropped. She hugged her uncle. What were they going to do?

  * * *

  Mac rattled the knob and put a shoulder to the door, but nothing he tried would budge the sealed entry. What did Coach hope to achieve with this stunt? He glanced back; Sam’s gaze was encouraging, as though she thought he could perform a miracle and save the man behind his wife’s death. Funny thing was, he wanted to be Sam’s hero. They could worry about the penalty Doc must pay after he received medical attention.

  He could break the bay window if he had to but would rather find another way.

  “Mac, hurry,” Sam yelled.

  Grimacing over the wrench in his knee from kicking the door, Mac took a couple steps back, then rushed it, throwing all his weight at the wooden panels. They cracked but didn’t give. Again. And once more. Whatever held the door in place wasn’t willing to budge.

  He was failing her.

  He dropped his forehead to the warm oak and closed his eyes. His heart was pulled in two directions. He ached to get retribution for his wife and yet… there was Sam.

  He turned and watched her gently rub her uncle’s shoulder. Whatever he had done, he was still her family and had earned her loyalty. Mac couldn’t forget that.

  He picked up the iron poker and started to cross the room. “We’ll have to go through the window. Move back, Sam, and I’ll help Doc.”

  She stared at him with wide eyes. “But it must be an eight foot drop. How are we going to get him out?”

  “One problem at a time, okay?” He gave her a hand up and then obeyed the impulse to pull her close. She smelled of smoke and he realized he could have hurt her with his ill-conceived plan. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

  She reached up and kissed him, the butterfly touch going straight to his groin. “I love you, Mac Wanowski.”

  His heart stuttered. “Sam…”

  There was a sudden explosion of sound as the doorway burst open. “RCMP, hands where we can see them.” Three uniformed officers entered with choreographed precision, armed and dangerous.

  Sam pulled away and took a step toward the police, who turned their guns on her in reaction. She froze. Mac raised his hands and moved in front of her, his mouth dry. “Whoa, take it easy there. We’re not going to give you any trouble.”

  “Please,” Sam said, her voice hoarse. “My uncle is having a stroke. He needs help.”

  One of the men glanced at the one in the center—obviously his superior—and at a short nod, holstered his weapon and strode to Doc, careful to keep a distance between himself and Mac. After a short assessment, he stood. “The sooner he gets medical attention, the better. There’s a gun on the bench, sir.”

  “Understood, Corporal, make the call and start processing the evidence.” The sergeant directed them to the sofa. “Have a seat, please. We just need to ask you a few questions while we wait.”

  Sam wavered, her gaze going to her uncle before she led the way to the couch. Mac took a seat and grasped her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

  The sergeant sat in the chair opposite and gave them a piercing stare. “Let’s start with your names.”

  “Mac Wanowski, captain of the Victoria WarHawks.” Mac could feel Sam’s tension along his side. He wished he could make this easier for her. “Can’t we do this later?”

  Sergeant Wilkins, according to his nametag, stiffened at his tone, pen poised over his notepad. “Sure. If you’d rather spend time at the precinct, we can arrange that.”

  It was Sam’s turn to squeeze his fingers. “No, it’s all right. We’ll tell you whatever you want. Mac knows I’m worried about my uncle, that’s all. Samantha Walters, physiotherapist. And that’s Thomas Edwards, my uncle and the team’s doctor.”

  The sergeant nodded and made some notes. “We’re aware of Mr. Edwards. Can you enlighten us as to why you all are in this remote cabin, and why Mr. Edwards seems to be in possession of a firearm?”

  Sam met Mac’s gaze, her brow furrowed. Much as he wanted to throw Thomas under the bus, he couldn’t hurt her that way. “You’ll have to ask him when he’s recovered. We can’t answer that question.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” the officer murmured. He flipped a page in his notepad. “Okay. How about explaining why there was a chair against the door to the den when we arrived, locking you all inside?”

  So that’s why he couldn’t get through. Damnit, Coach. And again, if he wanted to protect Sam, his hands were tied. “I have no idea,” he said. True enough. He didn’t know why the coach had chosen to risk their lives by locking them in.

  “Hmm,” Sergeant Wilkens said, tapping the pen against his jaw. “So it has nothing to do with the two men we captured earlier today breaking into a cabin south of here, or one Dan Harris who is currently a guest in one of our patrol cars sitting outside?” He raised a hand before they could answer. “You should know ahead of time, those two men told us a mighty interesting story about your uncle and a gambling syndicate we’ve been investigating for some time. We take money laundering very seriously in this country, Miss Walters. Unless you want to be charged as an accessory, I suggest you tell us the truth.”

  Damn, the gloves were off. Mac kissed Sam’s brow, aware he might be doing so for the very last time, then turned to the Mountie. “There’s no need for that, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  23

  6 months later

  Mac led his team onto the ice at Roger’s Arena to the screams of sixteen thousand ravenous fans. They were playing the Vancouver Canucks tonight and it promised to be an exciting game. As they circled the rink, he couldn’t help but search the stands for a honey-blond head and cerulean blue eyes, but without much hope. Sam had disappeared.

  Both teams formed a line at center ice and waited for the national anthem to begin. There were many things Mac could say he was grateful for; his career, friends, relative health, but it all felt flat. All he could think about was Sam and the last time he’s seen her on the courthouse steps. Her uncle had just been convicted of racketeering in collusion with the coach, Dan Harris. Both men lost their jobs within the NHL and were ordered to two years less a day imprisonment plus a restitution of twenty-five thousand dollars. Thanks to a hotshot lawyer team Mac had found and covered the fees for, the sentences were lenient based on the defendants’ ages and lack of previous convictions.

  He’d arrived late for the hearing and sat at the back of the courtroom to watch the proceedings, all the while aching to take Sam’s pain away. He didn’t think she’d noticed him when it was over and she had walked out holding her crying mother’s arm, a young man following close behind, but she’d been waiting on the steps when he exited the building.

  “Mac,” she’d said, a wealth of emotion in her expressive eyes.

  He’d taken her hands, aware her family looked on from the sidewalk below. “How are you, Sam?”

  She’d smiled and it had twisted his heart. “Better, thanks to you. It will take time, but I promise we’ll pay you back. I can’t believe you helped my uncles after…”

  “I didn’t do it for them,” he murmured. “Listen, Sam—”

  “Sam, are you coming?” her brother called, his arm wrapped protectively around their mother. The news media were circling like vultures and Mac knew he was running out of time.

  She tried to pull away, but he held fast, scared to let her go. “When can I see you again?” he’d demanded, uncaring what the people milling around them thought.

  Sam stilled, blue eyes huge in her pale face. “I… I can’t. It wouldn’t be right. There’s too muc
h between us, Mac. You have to see that.”

  Yeah, he did. He loved her, damnit. He wasn’t willing to give up on their relationship. Apparently, she didn’t feel the same way. He straightened and took a step back, releasing her hands. “Sure, I get it. Don’t worry about the money, it was nothing. Take care of yourself, Doc.”

  Tears pooled and slid down her cheeks unheeded. Mac knew he seemed callous, but he couldn’t bring himself to apologize. She was giving up without giving them a chance. He looked down at her family and the anger evaporated. They needed her support right now, he couldn’t fault her loyalties, it was one of the many reasons he loved her.

  “You better go, they’re waiting,” he said and leaned down to brush a tender kiss to her lips. Her eyes closed a moment as though to savor his touch, then she hurried down the steps and disappeared into the crowd without another word.

  That was six months, two days, and five hours ago.

  The sportscaster announced the lineup and he took his place, waiting for the puck to drop. The three periods went by at breakneck speed, the Canucks giving them a run for their money, but in the last period the WarHawks took over and scored two goals for the win.

  Mac chest bumped his teammates and shook hands with their opponents, then headed off the ice. He wanted to avoid the celebrations, partying just didn’t work for him anymore. He glanced up at the fans as he left the rink and froze. Sam stared down at him with a nervous smile.

  “Hi,” she mouthed.

  Mac’s heart rocketed around his chest. He dropped his stick and grabbed hold of the top of the wall to lever himself up to her height, his skates searching for purchase against the wood. The spectators watched with avid interest, but that didn’t matter—nothing did except that Sam was here. She’d come.

  “About time,” he said, just before he took her mouth in a ravenous kiss that made the audience hoot and clap.

  “I love you,” she whispered against his lips.

  His chest filled with exhilaration. He’d scored the best trophy of his life—Sam’s love.

  Preview Tempted by Mr. Wrong

  Tammy-Jo woke late after a night spent tossing and turning—and regretting saying no to Jason. Those few moments in the kitchen had replayed in her head for hours. What did he think he was doing, crashing back into their lives and disrupting… everything?

  A reporter.

  She’d never have figured him for a social media person. He’d always been something of a loner as a teenager. She remembered all the girls totally crushing on him in school—her included. He’d been so different from the normal crowd, with his keep away vibe and worn clothes. T.J. hadn’t told any of her friends he was her new step-brother. She’d been too embarrassed. And if the truth were told, jealous. The special place she’d occupied in her father’s life changed. He brought a woman she didn’t know, and wasn’t sure she liked, into their home.

  And she brought a boy with her.

  Seventeen to Tammy-Jo’s sweet sixteen, he’d made her young heart pound and secret places grow warm and damp with just a glance from those enigmatic blue eyes. She’d fallen headlong into her first full-blown crush.

  It had taken two long years to get Jason into her bed, and only a few short hours to know she’d never be the same again. They’d spent the summer learning everything there was to know about each other—or so she thought—and had planned to move in together while she went to college and he got a job nearby.

  When he suddenly left town without explanation, she’d learned a broken heart does eventually mend. It had taken a while, but she’d gone on to marry Tim and become the society matron her daddy wanted, and she hated.

  Now Tim was dead and Jason had returned. Fate was a mean creature.

  Even if she wanted to investigate Jason’s intentions toward her, and Lord knows she did, there was no way she was going to pull him into the middle of the mess that was her life. He had a good career and friends, while she had…

  She looked around the princess bedroom and her mud-splattered clothes from the night before scattered like ugly bruises on the white shag carpet. What if whoever shot Tim came after her? What if the police thought she had something to do with it, as Jason had suggested? Her first instinct was to go running to her father, but pride held her back. It was time she stood on her own two legs. She just hoped they didn’t get cut off at the knee.

  She glanced at the delicate gold watch on her wrist—a gift from Jason for her eighteenth birthday—and grimaced. Almost eleven a.m.; she was undoubtedly the last to rise. There were bound to be issues she would need to address, not least of which was an explanation of how she’d ended up the laughing stock of the country club yesterday. T.J. had no illusions about how her father would feel about his precious daughter creating such a scene in front of his friends and clients.

  Not to mention the dead husband in her front yard.

  She showered in record time, but then wasted half an hour trying to find something in her closet that still fit. The pants were too snug—she’d apparently grown hips in the past ten years—and the tops threatened her with indecent exposure. The dirty clothes on the floor might have to do. She sighed and turned to step out of the walk-in closet, then stopped when a ribbon of color caught her eye.

  The dress she’d worn the night she convinced Jason to give their relationship a chance.

  Could she?

  It probably wouldn’t even fit.

  Jade green and made from the finest silk, everything about the dress screamed seduction from the form-fitting torso, to the sweetheart neckline that showed just the right amount of décolletage to hold a man’s attention.

  And it had. Jason hadn’t taken his eyes off her the whole night. Her heart fluttered. This was crazy. It was only a dress. And she needed something to wear.

  T.J. pulled the shimmery material off the hanger and over her head before she changed her mind. The cloth slid down her body like a lover’s touch. She smoothed the fabric over her hips and gave a little twist, loving the flirty swish of the skirt just above her knees. Maybe this would give her the confidence boost she was going to need while giving her statement to the police today.

  Poor Tim. There’d been no love lost between them, especially towards the end, and even though she’d wished him dead on more than one occasion, she hadn’t meant it literally.

  Suddenly, the papers she carried in her purse took on a much more sinister perspective. Could they have something to do with Tim’s murder?

  There was a ringing in her ears and her vision wavered in and out of focus. She put a trembling hand out to brace herself against the wall. Oh, God, what if this was her fault? Maybe, whoever it was had somehow found out the papers were missing, and killed him for it. That was it. Bone deep, she knew she was right.

  Which meant she was in a world of trouble.

  T.J. stumbled into the other room and searched the floor for her clutch. She was about to panic when she caught sight of it pushed under the edge of her bed. She dropped to her knees, almost hyperventilating, and threw the covers aside so she could grasp the purse. Her fingers shook so hard it was tough getting the clasp undone. But finally, finally she made it, and there they were, folded and hidden in the bottom under her make-up and wallet and glasses and various other odds and ends all women managed to carry in their bags.

  She yanked them out, uncaring as her lipstick went rolling into the thick forest of carpet, or that her wallet tumbled from her lap to the floor. She turned and sank onto her bottom, back against the bed, and unfolded the five pages, dreading what she would find.

  The first sheet contained some kind of complicated formula. It made no sense to her so she moved on to the next page. Names. Three columns. The first, a garbled—or maybe coded? —version of someone’s name. The next held a date and monetary amount. The third? Another date with a total, but this one much higher than the first. What did it mean?

  Tim was—had been—a corporate investor, so it made sense that he worked with numbers, but thi
s was different. Secretive. It was written in his handwriting, instead of computer driven, and he’d hidden it away in the back of his safe—the one he thought she didn’t know about.

  The one she wished now she’d stayed out of.

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  Afterword

  In 1879 the first organized team, the McGill University Hockey Club, was formed, and with the advent of a basic set of rules, the sport quickly spread across Canada. The first "world championship" was held in 1883 at the Montreal Ice Carnival and was won by McGill. Even though the winter carnival hockey tournament was considered a “world championship,” only teams from Eastern Canada participated, according to the Montreal Gazette. The first national association, known as the Amateur Hockey Association of Canada, was formed in 1886, with representatives from Québec City, Montréal and Ottawa. A group of colleges, universities, and military and athletic clubs formed the Ontario Hockey Association in 1890. Governor General Lord Stanley donated a trophy in 1893 for the national championship, and the first Stanley Cup game was played 22 March 1893, with Montreal AAA victorious before a crowd of 5000.