by Kate Meader
While Remy’s brain cycled through what that might mean for this visit, Callaghan took in the sterile surroundings and the not-yet-unpacked boxes. His eyes lit up on seeing the PlayStation Remy had set up first thing. Priorities, he had ’em.
Callaghan picked up the disc case for Hockey All Stars sitting on top of the console.
“How the fuck do you have this? It’s not out until December.”
The kid turned over the advance copy of the game and read the back cover. One, two . . . Remy let him get there all by his lonesome.
“You’re in the game?”
“Sure am.”
Ford shook his head, disgusted. “Perks of your veteran status, I s’pose.”
“Perks of my awesomeness.”
Remy sat and pulled on his hand-crafted Luccheses. Gretzky ambled over, climbed onto the sofa at the other end, and curled up. Not his furniture, so hell if Remy cared, but the farting might be a legit problem in such a small space.
“Callaghan, if you could change anything about the Rebels, what would it be?”
“Better leadership.” At Remy’s look, he clarified. “Not Harper. On the ice. That’s what she’s trying to do. She thinks you’re the linchpin.”
“That what you think?” Is that what they all thought? An NHL pro for seventeen years, Remy was known as a hard worker, a team player, a guy who went to any lengths necessary to get the job done. He’d never worn a captain’s band. Had never had that kind of expectation thrust on him.
He should have wanted the responsibility. Thrived on it.
Instead he was . . . worried. This wasn’t how he imagined his final year playing out. His body was in a state of collapse, the speed of which had increased these past twelve months. There was only a finite amount in reserve that he could draw on during the playoffs. Not that he’d expected to coast to the finals, but he had expected to be part of a well-oiled machine, an organization where he was a cog, not the engine.
Striking that bargain with Harper in the Philly locker room had energized him, though. Not just the bargain, but the negotiation of it. Ms. Chase sucked ass at hiding her feelings, and boy was she pissed to the Almighty at him. That night, they’d clawed two goals back, one scored by Remy, another he’d laid up sweetly for Callaghan. Not a win, but better than a shutout. Remy definitely preferred giving it his all to half-assing it like he’d been during the first two periods.
Good thing Harper hadn’t called his bluff, because he respected the game and his teammates too much to keep up that shitty level of play. But in this sport—hell, in any professional sport—the owners and management held all the power, and they knew it. They’d use him, chew him up, and then spit him out when they no longer needed him, without a care for his hopes or dreams. He had to use what little leverage he had.
Ford was making his case. “I think we have a captain, but he’s not there mentally. We have guys who’ve been beaten down and would give their shooting arms to be playing for any other team in the league. We have an owner-slash-GM who needs every person in the org to be contributing one hundred percent.”
“Sure she didn’t send you?”
There was that blinding grin again. There’d be a whole lot of feminine wailing and teeth-gnashing the day Callaghan put a ring on his woman’s finger.
“I won’t pretend I’m not a fan of Harper’s. I am. New Orleans wanted to punish me big time. They’d rather have held on and benched me for the two years left on my contract than let me play or trade me out to a decent team. Now I’m here with the woman of my dreams and my family nearby. That’s down to Harper.”
The sainted Harper. “You made a decision with your dick and paid the price. And Harper got a pretty good bargain. A great right-winger from a Cup-winning team.”
“She gave up her top draft picks for the next three years.”
“Shit, you’re not that good, Callaghan.”
He chuckled. “If I had a center who played as hard as you did in the last period against Philly, then I could be that good, DuPre. We could be that good.”
“I’ll pay you for the coffee if you cut the pep talk.”
More laughter. For a guy whose career had taken a precipitous dive by his going from a champion team to the dregs of the league, he was remarkably sanguine.
“What’s on your dance card tonight, DuPre?”
Digging out his coffee mugs. Playing himself on Hockey All Stars. Deciding how he was going to make his time in Chicago count.
“You tell me.”
“Celebrating my birthday.” He picked up his coffee and headed toward the door. “But now, we skate.”
Later that evening, Remy walked into Jimmy’s Tap, an Irish dive bar in Chicago’s Bridgeport neighborhood on the South Side, and succumbed to an acute pang of longing for New Orleans. Maybe that was why he’d been so antsy. He rarely went this long—an entire month—without seeing his family, but in two weeks they’d have an away game in NOLA and he’d get to check in with them all.
The hardest thing about hockey was not being able to put down roots, and that was especially hard for a Cajun boy like him. Family was important, and as soon as he was done with the pros, he’d get busy making one of his own. Sure, he could be working on that during his player days, but damned if he was going to miss a minute of his kids growing up. Neither did he want to inflict his moods on the people he loved the most, and hockey players were moody fuckers at the best of times. No woman should have to put up with his shit every time he came home after skating within kissing distance of the Cup and failing yet again.
Nodding his way through the crowd, he headed for the birthday boy and his knockout girlfriend. Addison Williams was an amazon of a woman who’d made her fortune showing a lot of skin. Remy had no problem with that, though he had to wonder how he’d feel if it were his femme walking the runway in sexy lingerie. He guessed as long as his hands, and his hands alone, got to touch her skin it’d be all right.
“DuPre,” Ford said, his goofy grin stretching wide. “Have you met my girl, Addy?”
“Not had the pleasure, chérie.” He raised Addison’s hand and kissed her knuckles, adding a cheeky wink.
Addison laughed. “Oh, it’s all true, then.”
“What is?”
“That southern charm that gets the ladies warm.” She drew her hand back and fanned her face. “My, my, Mr. DuPre, have pity on my sensibilities.”
“No quarter given, not where a pretty lady is concerned.”
“Told ya he was trouble,” Ford said good-naturedly. Remy appreciated that he wasn’t some asshole who felt threatened whenever a guy flirted with his woman. Sign of confidence right there.
“Oh, babe, there’s Harper. I’ll be back in a second.” Leaving him with the kind of kiss no woman should lay on her guy in public, Addison sashayed off toward the door of the bar. Remy would have watched, but he didn’t want to look like he was ogling the very fine ass of his teammate’s girlfriend.
“How’d a goon like you end up with a quality woman like that?”
Ford blew out a breath, his eyes still on Addison over Remy’s shoulder. “I ask myself that question every fuckin’ day. She’s something, isn’t she?”
Remy took that as permission to look so he could verify that Addison was indeed something. Of course, his gaze leapfrogged over the future Mrs. Ford Callaghan and landed right where it meant to go.
On Harper Chase herself.
Mon dieu.
She’d let her hair down. Literally. Until now, he’d only seen it tied back in a Wicked Witch of the West bun that looked like it caused a perpetual headache. Tonight it fell past her shoulders in a cascade of corn silk waves. A red top slashed across her collarbone, one shoulder covered, one exposed. It gave her fair skin a luminous, almost translucent quality. He imagined that if he touched her, his hand might pass right through. She had on dark je
ans and black shiny heels that gave her a few inches, but he’d still need to lift her up to align his favorite parts with her favorite parts.
This was not where his head should be going—either of them. But sometimes it was okay to give the little head some leeway as long as it remained in the depths of fantasy. Nothing wrong with thinking about a beautiful woman and the dirty things he’d like to do to her. He could just as easily transfer that mental action to Addison Williams. Hell, he’d seen a lot more of her skin.
Something dark clawed in his chest. Harper was not alone.
A vaguely familiar guy was hovering at the bare shoulder that needed Remy’s lips on it now. Right. The Rebels’ lawyer, Kenneth Bailey, who had his hand on the small of Harper’s back. Remy couldn’t actually see that for sure, and neither should he care, but the proprietary nature of that arm’s positioning sparked something greedy inside him. He needed to stop looking before these forbidden thoughts became easier to read on his face than the pout on one of his nieces’ faces when she didn’t get the ice-cream cone she’d begged for.
Turning back to Ford, he asked, “You still underage, or are we actually celebratin’ something here?”
Ford’s mouth curved into that pretty-boy grin.
“Sure. I’ll let you buy me a drink, DuPre.”
SIX
“So. Kenneth.” Addy sipped her soda, her sharp eyes on the attorney as he tried to cut a path through the mass of pro-hockey muscle to get Harper a drink at the bar.
Harper played coy. “What about him?”
Her friend raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me that eyebrow of disapproval, Addy Williams. I practically dislocated mine two months ago when you hooked up with Callaghan.”
“Which is why I’m being a good friend now. I know you’re not sleeping with him, and I can’t believe he’s still here playing at perfect little lapdog.”
“So men only stick around if the promise of sex is in play?”
Addy tilted her head. “You’ve had him on a string for a year, Harper.”
“Kenneth knows the score. I’ve told him I’m not interested in a relationship right now, and we’re happy to be each other’s plus-one for various events. No expectations, no complications.”
And no chemistry. Still, it was nice to have someone to rely on for a dinner date or an armrest for a charity gala. She’d told Kenneth he was welcome to date anyone he chose; he’d told her he was happy to be her “support” as she went through this difficult time. Far be it from her to disabuse him of his mission to feel useful.
Her gaze arced over the bar, looking for . . . oh, no one in particular. Before it landed on no one, though, it collided with Violet in combat boots and a tutu. Lord, give her strength.
Her youngest sister held court with Cade Burnett, Erik Jorgenson, and the rest of the defensemen. Since moving into the coach house on the lakefront property two weeks ago, Violet had kept a low profile. Per the will’s stipulations, she’d attended three home games so far and signed everything that was put in front of her. Tonight she was enjoying the unwritten perks of hockey team ownership: immersion in the pool of sports’ fittest specimens. Harper would have a little chat with her later about management/labor boundaries.
She refocused on Addy, who looked positively gorgeous. Was it possible the boobs that made her fortune were even bigger than usual? “What did you get Ford for his birthday? Lemme guess. Anal?”
Addy flushed. Gun. Fish. Barrel.
“Knew it.”
“Nooo. I haven’t given him his gift yet.” The slightest vestige of doubt fluttered over her face for the briefest moment. Pinning on a smile, she said, “Your savior’s a real charmer, by the way.”
“My sav—oh, right.” Inevitably, Harper’s gaze was drawn toward the man who was supposed to solve all her problems, Mr. No One himself. He had his back to her, but his shoulders shook with laughter at something Ford was saying. Big, strong shoulders, as wide as an ox, topping back muscles she could swear she saw defined through the gray T-shirt drawn tight across his body. As for what was happening below those trim hips . . . Yet again, she was staring at DuPre’s ass and imagining what that warm slab of marble would feel like beneath her greedy fingertips.
A tingle started up in places that had not tingled in a very long time. Of all the people for her libido to toggle on for, why did it have to be Remy DuPre? She longed to be attracted to Kenneth. So much easier. Much more suitable. But annoyingly, her lizard brain insisted on elbowing its way to the fore and screaming, “Me want Cajun!”
Perspective, Harper. She was still furious at how he had outfoxed her in Philly, and her fury was clearly tied into her attraction to him. Just an unhealthy case of sexual loathing, nothing more. She shouldn’t be having any feelings of the kind for her employee, but the tingle, and the lizard brain, and—gah!—her damn nipples were all reinforcing this inappropriate draw.
“I wonder why he’s not married,” Addy mused. “Or in a relationship.”
“Some men aren’t cut out for it.” Case in point, Harper’s father. “You probably found the last magical unicorn in the NHL.”
Addy squinted. “He’s had girlfriends. Plenty of girlfriends.”
Harper had witnessed that Big Easy charm of DuPre’s when she did the mom pull on his ear a week ago. That woman straddling him, her pert breasts positioned at the perfect angle for his mouth, his big hands cupping her half-exposed butt cheeks, ready to spread them for his pleasure. No doubt Remy had received the sendoff he deserved that night in Boston. And tonight there were any number of women present who would be happy to welcome him to Chicago.
Ugh! Harper was jealous of some puck bunny she hadn’t even laid her disapproving eyes on yet. This was so beneath her.
But you wouldn’t mind if Remy was beneath you . . . or vice versa.
She blinked at the image that conjured up. The taboo of it. She wasn’t looking for a fling. She wasn’t looking for anything. Harper had plenty of reasons for not wanting a relationship: too busy, career focused, no one had yet caught her eye. But the real reason never took long to cut through all those excuses.
She was a broken bird, and she would never allow a man to hurt her again.
“Sweetheart, I missed you,” Harper heard, and she turned in time to see Ford throw his arm around Addy and pull her in for a passionate kiss. Despite her own reservations about true love, she couldn’t help but appreciate the happiness Ford had brought her friend after her difficult marriage to the owner of the NHL franchise in New Orleans—and Ford’s former boss.
“Harper,” came the whiskey-laced voice of the Rebels’ messiah.
Peace had broken out, so it was only right that she should play along. “Remy, so nice to see you bonding with your teammates.”
He grinned, just a flash, but it really worked for him. “You need a drink?”
“Someone’s getting one for me.” She’d forgotten about Kenneth, her pillar in her time of need, and now she sought him out in the crowd three deep at the bar.
“You’ve been here five minutes and you’ve not got a drink in your hand? What the hell kind of party is this, Callaghan?”
A private party, apparently, as Ford was now busy getting his birthday present early from his girlfriend. The two of them had slipped away into the crowd, like the horny little devils they were.
Without missing a beat, Remy put his hand at the base of Harper’s spine and led her toward the bar before she had a chance to protest. Protesting would have been silly; they were surrounded by people, after all. The tingles returned, this time in a shock wave that danced all over her skin.
“What’s your poison, Harper?”
“Van Winkle Reserve, but really, there’s no need . . .”
Remy had already made eye contact with a bartender. He must have telepathically given her order, because the barman pulled the Pappy fr
om the top shelf and started to pour.
The Cajun’s big, blunt hand was still positioned at the small of her back, feeling perfectly natural, strangely belonging there. It felt like her body was an extension of that hand and he was her puppet master, the slightest twist of his fingers enough to control her limbs. A couple of steps forward in these heels and she could graze her breasts along that perfect spot below his pecs. Of course, if they were lying down, their nipples could meet and get acquainted . . .
She blinked at the sound of a deep rumble. Sigh. The man was speaking, ruining a perfectly good fantasy.
“Sorry?”
“Water in your whiskey?”
“Just a splash.” Keep the rest to put out the flames igniting all over her body.
The drink appeared, and in no time at all, Remy had pulled her strings again and steered her to a less-trafficked spot—a romantic might call it an alcove—away from the growing crowd. He handed off the drink and then unhanded her completely. Her body roared its disappointment.
“Some skills you have there,” she said. “Learn those in New Orleans?”
“New Or-leens? Wash that mouth out, minou.”
Minou? What did that mean? It sounded like an endearment, at least the way Remy’s devil mouth shaped it. His lips looked soft, and she wondered how they would feel on hers. On her everything.
“Uh, what did I say?”
“It’s pronounced New Orr-linz. Not N’awlins, and certainly not New Or-leens. Now say it right, Harper.”
“New Orr-linz.” The words spilled from her mouth, shaped and pronounced correctly.
His hot gaze fell to her lips as she said it, his expression tightening with each syllable she enunciated. “Better,” he said in a low tone, though he didn’t sound all that pleased she’d gotten it right. He stood tantalizingly close, the scent of freshly showered man making her a touch dizzy.
Cleansing breath. She took a sip of her drink, relishing the burn and the reality it ushered in.
“How are you settling into your new place?”