Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  Harper remained silent, watching as DuPre was slammed against the boards by a Philly defender and . . . laughed it off. Again. Where was the ragin’ Cajun she’d hired to create solidarity and push the men to the limits and then past them? This version of DuPre might as well be playing for the other team.

  She certainly did not need any more reasons to be furious with him. A reporter had snagged DuPre for a pregame interview and asked him how he felt about moving to Chicago. Good food town, her star and savior had said in that laid-back twang. At least I have that to look forward to. Social media exploded with speculation on DuPre’s cryptic comment, though the conclusion was clear to anyone with half a brain: poor li’l Remy was not a happy camper.

  Harper shot laser-eyed heat rays of disgust at the spot where Remy now stood, sharing a joke with one of the officials. Maybe if she stared for long enough she could melt the ice and send Remy DuPre to hell where he belonged with Clifford. But before she could will his descent to the fiery depths, the man did something she wouldn’t have believed if Isobel hadn’t made a slight noise of surprise behind her.

  He tipped the butt-end of his stick to his forehead and saluted the box. Saluted Harper herself.

  Her blood in a scrambled fury, she turned to find her sister grinning. “So, how did that meeting with DuPre in Boston go again?”

  After the second period blessedly came to a close, Harper stood outside Philly’s guest locker room and drew the deepest breath of her life. Her father had played a very hands-on role, (over)stepping on coaching territory, always thinking he knew best. Harper’s preference was to let Coach Calhoun and his team do their jobs. There should be no need for her to get into the dirt, and besides, such close proximity to so much muscle made her nervous. With good reason.

  Six years ago, the last time she had stood in an NHL locker room, her then-boyfriend had punched her hard enough to bloody her lip.

  The moment that fist connected, she had lost more than her self-confidence around the brawn that was her bread and butter. She had lost her legitimate shot at the team.

  But she needed to stand tall. Brian Rennie was gone, and she was in charge until they found a chief executive brave enough to take on the Rebels challenge.

  You can do this. Remember, you own every single one of their asses.

  Stepping inside, she expected to hear the gruff tones of Coach Calhoun berating or encouraging, so imagine her surprise when her ears were violated by the languorous drawl of the devil on skates himself.

  “So he was the number one draft pick that year,” DuPre was saying, “but hell if he wasn’t the most ornery nineteen-year-old you’d ever met. Twitchy and overcaffeinated and always in your face if you so much as cut a look his way. And that was him on a good day.”

  A few chuckles filled the air, enough to encourage DuPre to continue.

  “One moody sonovabitch, all right. And he had that weird winking tic. Remember?”

  More chuckles of agreement, and someone shouted, “Yep!”

  “You’d think he was makin’ everything out to be a joke. ‘Where are my shin pads?’ Wink. ‘Anyone got tape for my stick?’ Wink. And people were always hidin’ his shit because he pissed ’em off. Of course I didn’t know about his eyelash battin’ problem, so we’re sittin’ on the bench after practice and I think he’s winkin’ at me because something’s funny, y’know?”

  The team’s low laughter graduated to deep chortles.

  “And then he says—”

  Harper didn’t have time for this. “Coach,” she called out.

  Coach Calhoun turned around, surprised at Harper’s appearance in the locker room. She had considered getting rid of him during the purge along with Brian, but he was good at what he did, provided he had the right raw materials. He would be dealt with later. Tonight she had come for DuPre.

  Coach coughed as embarrassment caught up with him at last and he turned back to the team. “Now I know you have it in you to do better. Let’s try to get out of here without conceding any more goals.”

  What? On the wrong end of a four-goal deficit and they were worried about looking bad? Oh, boys, that puck has sailed.

  A swarm of pissed-off bees was buzzing in Harper’s head and the situation was not helped by her gaze clashing with DuPre’s blue-eyed stare. On seeing her, he had immediately stood—a gesture of chivalry, she supposed. The dichotomy disconcerted her. That scene she’d come across at his house back east seemed so at odds with this polite Louisiana boy. But there was no confusion about her feelings toward him and his toward her, which was fine, because she was not here to be liked.

  “Mr. DuPre, would you mind giving me a moment of your time?”

  That surprised him. It surprised them all, even Bren St. James, the Rebels’ captain, who offered an imperceptible eyebrow raise in her direction. She saw something else there. An unspoken question about her mental well-being.

  “Mr. DuPre?” she asked again, adding a shot of bitch to cover the tremble in her voice.

  “Final period’s about to start,” he drawled, those long, lazy vowels sending a bolt of unwanted heat through her. No man should look like that and be blessed with that panty-dropper voice. God’s quotas were definitely off with this guy.

  She stood her ground. Held his gaze.

  He sighed as if she were the difficult one. “Where would you like to have this moment, Ms. Chase?”

  “Out. All of you.”

  “They’ve got five minutes left,” Coach whined.

  Harper shot him a look that would’ve had him clutching his balls if the man had any to protect. “Then they can use that time to learn how to put a fucking puck in the net.” She arced a withering gaze over the team. “Now, gentlemen. Don’t make me say it again.”

  Amid a chorus of grumbles, they trod out, with Coach taking up the rear.

  Leaving her alone with DuPre.

  He looked uncomfortable standing there, balancing on his skates, ready to spring for the door. But she knew he wouldn’t sit while she stood, because his mother had raised him to respect women. Something fluttered in her chest at that notion. DuPre might be a lot of things—ladies’ man, good ol’ boy, thorn in her side—but she suspected he would never hurt someone weaker than himself.

  “You’ve got three minutes, Harper.”

  “Do you remember what I told you in Boston, DuPre?”

  “Somethin’ about needin’ me to instill leadership and help these boys get to the playoffs.” Warm honey flowed through her veins at the timbre of his voice. She could have sworn her panties slipped an inch.

  “I did say that. I meant it. And I thought you understood.”

  He rubbed his chin, the scrape against stubble delicious to her ears. All he was missing was a Stetson, a blade of grass, and some flighty piece in a cropped tank and Daisy Dukes. “I understood the words because you’d put them together in a highly entertainin’ way, and to certain ears, they might make sense. Then I told you what needed to happen to ensure my cooperation.”

  This nonsense stopped here. “Is that why you’re playing like you can barely walk, much less skate? What’s wrong, old man? Feeling a touch of arthritis in your joints?”

  For a brief moment, she thought she might have found his weakness: vanity. But no. He merely threaded his arms over his chest—over the Rebels’ logo of a big C with a hockey stick and a cutlass crossed behind it—and cocked his head.

  “You’re gonna have to use a little more finesse, Harper.”

  More surprising than the fact that Remy had used the word finesse correctly in a sentence was that he didn’t seem annoyed with her. He seemed . . . amused. As if she were a toy he could happily bat around like a kitten would a semiconscious mouse.

  Applause sounded, signifying the beginning of the final period. Neither of them moved, hands metaphorically hovering at their hips like Old West gunfighters.r />
  “The trade deadline,” she said, feeling livid and helpless. “Give me that.”

  “The all-star game.”

  Three months. The all-star game, held in late January, was traditionally viewed as the halfway point of the season. On the cusp of the busy trade period, it led into a month of bartering and haggling as everyone lined up their teams for the big push to the playoffs.

  At her hesitation, he leaned in, those cobalt blues flashing. It wasn’t enough to unholster her gun; she should have already taken her shot, and that delay was her undoing.

  “Would you rather three months of my full effort or a whole season of my skatin’ like I’m playin’ squirt hockey?”

  “You can’t seriously be reducing this to a game of ‘would you rather’?”

  His voice dropped to an intimate tone, her panties another inch with it. “If you shake on it now, I’ll begin that full effort tonight.”

  The siren blared in the distance, followed by the home crowd’s roar. Five-zip. Harper didn’t enjoy being blackmailed, but she enjoyed losing even less.

  She thrust her hand forward impatiently. He took it in his firm grasp. That electricity setting her skin aflame was her body telling her she’d made the right decision. Nothing else.

  “You have a game to finish.”

  He held on, and now he inclined his head so close she could count each and every one of those pretty-boy eyelashes. Her pulse rate spiked, and she was certain he could sense it. Sense her heart thumping rabbit kicks, her vein pulsing in her throat.

  “We’ve shaken on it now, minou, so don’t you dare think about welshing. I might sound like I spend my spare time spitballin’ from the rockin’ chair on my porch, but don’t let my accent fool you none. I’m not the kind of man you want for an enemy. We clear?”

  She might have rolled her eyes if she wasn’t just a wee bit impressed by his chutzpah. Still, he needed to be informed that while he might have won this battle, the war was far from over.

  “Try not to trip on your way to the rink, DuPre.”

  He laughed, deep and robust, clearly delighted with himself. Idiot. His thumb pressed against her inner wrist, and a crackle of energy leeched from him into her body.

  “You feel that, Harper?”

  She snatched back her hand. “If you mean my goodwill evaporating with every second you’re standing here, then, yeah, I feel it.”

  “I think we’re havin’ a thing.”

  They were. Oh, God, they were. “Why are you still here again?”

  His mouth curved. “Lady, I got the distinct feelin’ these next few months are gonna be fun.”

  He picked up his stick and, with more grace than a six-foot-two brute wearing skates on dry land should possess, he left the locker room.

  FIVE

  The Rebels’ miserable season continues with a loss last night in Remy DuPre’s first home game. The veteran power forward has made no secret of his displeasure with his trade, a surprise acquisition in a year when the beleaguered organization should be bringing in fresh legs while it rebuilds instead of ­relying on old-timers in the last flush of their careers. Also not a secret? How Clifford Chase had little faith in his eldest daughter, and it seems adding more estrogen is not improving the decision making at Rebels HQ. Put the city out of its misery, Ms. Chase, and hire a GM!

  —Curtis Deacon, Chicago Sun-Times

  Boxes, boxes everywhere, and not a single coffee mug to drink from.

  Remy surveyed the cell—okay, very nice apartment—the Rebels had leased for him in Riverbrook, a three-minute walk from the team’s arena, and about thirty minutes north of Chicago. Two bedrooms, two baths, decent kitchen, nice balcony where he could grill. Furnished, per his request, as he had no intention of relocating entirely. Not for three months.

  He’d had a few things sent over, though. His gym equipment, because he liked to put in extra time away from prying eyes at the team facility. That was frowned upon by trainers, but he knew his limits, and no way did he need the judgment of his younger teammates who didn’t have to train as hard as he did to stay at level.

  He’d also packed up a coffee machine, a stockpot, flatware, plates, and mugs. Plural, because he was ever hopeful he might get laid one of these days, and he’d like to be able to offer a cup of coffee to any lovely ­chérie who stayed the night. Damn, he’d like to be able to offer a cup to himself.

  Should’ve marked the damn boxes before they were loaded in the U-Haul. Lesson learned: never pack angry.

  Morning skate would start in about ninety minutes, so he should probably get rolling. Typical practice was to visit the trainers for a check-in to get taped, rubbed, and assessed for play. Hockey was hard on the body, and it only got harder the older a man got. He pulled up Yelp on his phone and checked the location of the nearest Starbucks. Five minutes in the opposite direction from the stadium, but not a problem.

  A knock on the front door cut into his coffee daydream.

  Some well-meaning neighbor probably, because it sure as hell wasn’t Bren St. James, the Rebels’ captain, who happened to live in the same building. Yesterday, Remy had spotted him in the elevator, sporting bags of groceries, a grim expression, and a stay-the-fuck-away attitude. The guy had to have seen Remy heading toward him, but he didn’t even make eye contact, just let the damn doors close in Remy’s face. Rehab must have stripped the man of all his charm.

  Remy hadn’t met anyone else yet, but he imagined news of his arrival might have spread through the halls of the building. Steeling himself for a blue-haired little old grandma carrying cookies (if only), he opened the door.

  It was St. James, and he wasn’t alone. Beside him sat a giant black-haired mutt as tall as his hip.

  “Hey,” Remy said after a good five seconds passed with St. James keeping his own counsel.

  “I need a favor.”

  Not one for small talk, then. Remy didn’t know the guy well, but he recognized that he seemed agitated, and his Scottish burr only emphasized it.

  “Does the favor involve your friend there?”

  St. James looked down at the dog, then back up at Remy. “I have a family emergency and don’t have time to get him to the kennel.”

  “Yeah, of course. How long you need?”

  The grim Scot ushered the dog in and handed off a leash and key. “A couple of days. My eight-year-old broke her arm and she lives with her ma in Atlanta, so—”

  “Hey, not a problem.” Next time, lead with that headline, why don’t you? Remy looked at the key. “Food and stuff at your place?”

  St. James was already backing away. “Yeah, 3B, one floor down. Closet right inside the door.” He looked mighty uncomfortable, as if the notion of asking anyone for a favor didn’t sit well with him. Guess when a man’s been apologizing to people about his drunken behavior for months, it begins to wear on him. He moved off and turned at the last second. “Thanks, DuPre. I owe you.”

  “If your dog shits all over my hardwood floors, I’ll piss in your next postgame beer.”

  Shit. Don’t make beer jokes to the alcoholic.

  A slight nod was his reward. Tough crowd. St. James was already at the elevator when Remy remembered something. “What’s his name?”

  “Gretzky.”

  The Great One. Why not? Remy shut the door and stood with hands on his hips, assessing his guest. His guest returned the favor by assessing Remy’s crotch with his slobbery tongue.

  “Buy me dinner first, big guy.”

  The dog replied with a tail wag and a loud fart. Real charmer, this one.

  Another knock, and Remy pounced on the doorknob, ready to demand the name of a local kennel, but it wasn’t St. James (or anyone with cookies, dammit). Filling Remy’s vision was a big blond Viking, bearing a gift that, on reflection, was better than baked goods: two large cups in a carrier tray. Liquid gold steam whorl
s rose from the lids’ holes as the coffee’s aroma hit him like a semi to his senses.

  Above the offering, the face of Ford Callaghan, the Rebels’ right-winger, lit up with a doofus grin. “Thought I’d walk you to class, newbie.”

  Remy opened the door wider. “I would ask how you got into the building, but I’m guessing you smiled at someone.”

  “One of your neighbors held the door. I’m ex­­tremely nonthreatening.” He grinned again. “Off the ice.”

  Never a truer word. Guy was a beast on skates. “Come in. Just need to grab a jacket and boots.”

  Ford nodded at Gretzky like he was an old friend, put the tray down on the counter, and removed both cups. “Figured you for a cream-and-sugar guy.” Said in the tone of don’t really care, just be thankful.

  Remy took a sip and the day suddenly started to look a whole lot better.

  Ford turned his attention to the dog once more. “What’s Big G doing here?”

  “Our captain had to skip town suddenly.” The dog let another one rip, which Callaghan found to be hilarious.

  Despite sharing an agent, Remy had met ­Callaghan only three or four times off the ice. He’d always impressed Remy as driven, professional, and way more mature than the average twenty-six-year-old. Or, that was Remy’s opinion before news erupted a month ago that Ford was dating the ex-wife of his boss at the New Orleans Rage, last season’s Stanley Cup champions.

  Awkward.

  For his pains, he was traded to the worst—second-worst—team in the league, all because he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

  “Our fearless leader appoint you head of the welcoming committee?”

  “My girlfriend thought you might need someone to hold your hand. I said guys don’t really need that kind of support system, but she insisted, so here I am.”

  Totally pussy-whipped, then, except Remy suspected Callaghan had his own agenda, and for some reason, he’d rather let his woman take the fall. Remy remembered reading somewhere that Harper Chase was BFF with Callaghan’s girlfriend, lingerie model and designer Addison Williams.