by Kate Meader
“Bon. I need to buy some new coffee mugs because I can’t find the ones I thought I brought, but other than that, c’est bon.”
He was speaking French. Christ on a Ritz cracker, if that wasn’t the hottest thing she’d ever heard out of a man’s mouth. And now she was thinking of his mouth again. Whispering French endearments, grazing her heated skin, exploring private, needy places.
Remember who he is to you. What he is to you. “Players often live in that building while they get situated.”
“Yeah, I ran into St. James. Would’ve thought he had something more permanent.”
It was no secret that her captain was going through a rough time. A split from his ex-wife—a split that was a long time coming because the woman was a soul-sucking vampire—had left him in need of temporary accommodation postrehab. Harper had hoped that placing Bren and Remy in close proximity to each other would yield results. Time was of the essence, so nurturing their bond was one of her ideas to move the team forward.
“Now that his girls live with their mom in Atlanta, he thinks a big house is too lonely.” Living in a mausoleum of her own, she understood exactly where Bren was coming from. “He needs good people around him.”
“Right. I’m the official team baby-sitter.” No longer sounding pissed, he projected resignation to the role he’d been given. She’d take that for progress. “Mind if I ask you a question, Harper?”
She gave that the eyebrow hitch it deserved.
“A decent GM shouldn’t be hard to find. Why make it so hard on yourself?”
“Worried I’ll take on skating drills as well? Owner-manager-coach, the triple threat?”
He studied her, maybe trying to puzzle her out. Good. She liked keeping him on the tips of his blades.
“I’ve seen your sister hanging around the coaching offices, so I guess she’s your designate.”
Over Harper’s dead body. “Minor-league coaching isn’t quite the same ball game.”
“You need a GM,” Remy said definitively.
Fighting for serenity, she swirled her drink in her glass and counted to five so she wouldn’t scream her head off. “When my father died, I saw a chance to make changes. Brian Rennie was part of the old guard, and I knew he’d be reluctant to go in the direction I needed. Sure, I could persuade him, but I’m already in an uphill battle trying to get the team back on track. I don’t have time for infighting.”
“Not when you’re too busy pickin’ fights with your players, huh?” He smiled to soften the jab. “How’s joint rule working out?”
“My sisters understand that I’m in the best position to make this work. My whole life has been building to this.” Her voice was almost as steady as her gaze, but then she had to ruin it with the slightest crack when she added, “This year is make or break.”
He looked curious. Probing. What was it about Remy and his blue-eyed burn that saw right through her?
My father screwed me over, and not for the first time. No one thinks I can do this. I need you to think I can do this.
He could have pushed and she would have caved, but any imminent confession was derailed by a screech and a cloud of perfume that made Harper’s eyes sting.
“Remy!” A tall redhead wearing what looked like a band of gauze lassoing two Goodyear blimps threw her arms around his neck. “I can’t believe you’re here!”
The new arrival practically knocked Harper out of the way, pretzeled her stacked body around Remy’s, and sucked on the Cajun’s lips like an anteater. It took him a good three and a half seconds—but who was counting?—before he drew back.
“Have we met, chérie?”
“We have now, Jinx,” she purred. “I just wanted to welcome you to Chi-Town. Properly.”
His mouth hardened slightly. “Well, it sure is a pleasure, but right now I’m kind of in the middle of something, so I’ll have to take a rain check.” His eyes flickered over the woman’s shoulder to where Harper was sipping on her whiskey, enjoying the show. She had a perfect view of the woman’s tramp stamp—the positively poetic Get Some with an arrow pointing down—along with her above-the-waistband leopard-print thong.
Goodyear Blimps speared a look designed to put Harper six feet under twice over and then quickly recalibrated her smile for Remy. From her cleavage, she extracted a (crumpled, undoubtedly sweat-stained) business card and placed it in Remy’s jeans pocket. It took a few moments to ensure that it was safely secured.
“The welcome offer is open-ended, Jinx.”
Another wince crossed Remy’s face, though Goodyear missed it as she was too busy trying to maintain her center of gravity on her totter toward the bar.
“ ‘The welcome offer is open-ended, Jinx,’ ” Harper mimicked in her most breathless gush, adding a bout of vehement eyelash batting into the mix.
“Don’t be jealous, now, Harper. I sent her away, didn’t I?”
“That ‘Jinx’ business must get tiresome.”
“Just a name. Don’t bother me none.” He rubbed his mouth of any remaining lipstick, a man without a care, but she knew better. “So where’s your date?”
“My date?”
“The guy you came in with.”
She had completely forgotten about Kenneth, again. The moment Remy entered her awareness, the rest of the world faded. This was not good. She refused to be distracted by her attraction to this man.
Admitting the problem freed her mind. So she was attracted to Remy—crazy, lights-out attracted—but her hormones were not the boss of her. She could have affirmed that she and Kenneth were just good friends, but it seemed easier to use him as her buffer. Kenneth did so enjoy being useful.
She looked over Remy’s shoulder, seeking out the lawyer’s blond head and Teutonic good looks. There he was. Somehow he’d been waylaid by the biggest attraction in the room: the fantastic breasts of supermodel Addison Williams. Her friend caught her eye and winked.
Hell, that’s all she needed. Addy playing matchmaker. “He’s around here somewhere,” Harper said to Remy. “I probably should get back to him.”
In the last few moments, the Cajun had moved closer. Or maybe she was closer? Either way, her lungs were filled with him and her eyeballs were filled with that painfully gorgeous mahogany brown hair and those cobalt blues, a little darker now than before.
“If you were my woman, I wouldn’t leave you alone for a second.”
Her heart—and somewhere lower—gave a delighted skip. Had he really just said that? It was just so . . . outrageous. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but a chorus of “Happy Birthday” whooshed into the sex-drenched pause. Some impatient well-wisher pushed her from behind, sloshing her drink so that a sizable portion of it landed on Remy’s chest.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her hand went to his chest because of course it did. That’s what happened when you spilled a drink on a chest that looked like Remy DuPre’s.
Damp pecs, therefore grabby hands.
She snatched her hand away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t . . . let me get you a napkin.” Acutely aware of the heat flooding her cheeks, she searched her immediate surroundings for napkins, but nothing entered her field of vision.
Her purse! “I’m sure I brought tissues . . .” Needing desperately to compose herself, she gave him her back and opened her Kate Spade (Cobble Hill Ella in emerald forest), only to feel a warm pressure at her waist.
“’S okay, Harper.” His breath blew sweet against her ear, his body a wall of heat behind her. Long, strong fingers indented perfectly above her hip. “It’s just a little splash. Next time you want to touch me so bad, just ask, minou.”
That word again. It sounded deliciously intimate and entirely inappropriate. Resisting the urge to whip her phone out and Google it right then and there, she delivered a tacked-on smile over her shoulder to let him know she appreciated the joke.
“Fun
ny, DuPre.”
“You think so?” He didn’t think it funny, she could tell. Not with the way his eyes burned her alive. Not with the way his mouth turned harsh with desire. The world around them had further receded, leaving only this bubble, this sensual space built for two. Distant echoes of “Happy Birthday” tried to intrude, but nothing could penetrate.
“Hilarious,” she said, going with the flow while aiming for her boss voice. Rusty at best. His hand curled around her waist was the only thing keeping her standing.
No response from him, unless you counted those fingers of intent digging into her hip. Holding her up, dragging her under, and oh God, oh God, oh God he’s going to kiss me. Right here, in front of the whole damn world.
Worse, she wanted it. Those lips on hers, the surrender, the fall, after trying to stand tall on her own for so long. Never mind that she’d be a laughingstock or that every accusation about being unable to manage the team because she was a woman would be thrown at her. Meet Harper Chase, team owner, acting GM, and her sidekick, VP of player relations—aka her vagina.
“Remy,” she whispered. Please don’t do this even if every cell in my body is telling you I need your mouth on mine. Please be the stronger person here.
“I know.” And then he bent his head and grazed her bare shoulder. Just a whisper of those full, surprisingly soft lips on her exposed skin. It could have been an accident. Surely it was, because, again, inappropriate.
But then everything about him and what was happening here was so, so wrong.
A light squeeze to her waist—filled with want and a hint of regret, if that was possible—and he disappeared into the crowd.
SEVEN
A week after Ford’s party, Harper’s shoulder still tingled where Remy’s lips had touched her. She’d gone through several emotional reactions since, and had settled on irritated.
The sheer gall of the man, kissing her shoulder in, not exactly broad daylight, but atmospheric bar light. She’d spent several nights tangled up in sheets, analyzing his behavior. That kiss had been no accident. His lips had not grazed her exposed shoulder as he leaned over to grab his beer. His hand on her hip followed by his lips on her shoulder, a straight line from A to B. The evidence was clear.
Her star center had made a pass at her in front of the whole team.
In what universe was Remy living if he thought that was acceptable? Perhaps she had encouraged him when she splashed her drink on his hard, sculpted chest. That was it. She had given off mixed signals and he’d gotten the wrong end of the stick. If anything, it was her fault. She should talk to him about it. Moving forward with that thick tension between them would be detrimental to the team dynamics.
Adding to her discombobulation, she was also shaky after a pregame interview ten minutes ago. One would think that a month into the season, the sports media would have found another story to latch on to. It wasn’t as if anything had changed since last year. The Rebels were still unlovable losers, only now they were unlovable losers being led by their dicks to last place. The notion of three women “ruining” a franchise already in tatters was considered a huge insult to the proud testosterone-soaked bastion known as the NHL.
Curtis Deacon of the Chicago Sun-Times hadn’t asked her a single question about acquisitions or the strategy for tonight’s away game against Boston. All he and every other analyst cared about was when she would hire a new GM. Translation: You need a man to make the tough decisions, little lady.
First DuPre, now the rest. Every single one of these motherfuckers really got on her tits.
On her way to the executive-box level in the Boston Cougars’ arena, for their third game in a row on the road, Harper inhaled yoga-quality breaths. Tonight’s game was important, and she wondered how Remy felt being back on his old turf. He had to have mixed feelings about it, but she hoped his desire to prove himself to his old crew was the overriding emotion. Rounding the corner, with one path leading to the stadium tunnel, the other to the elevators, she spotted Isobel in conversation with someone big, wearing full player gear in Cougars colors. At first Harper didn’t recognize him with his back to her, but as she moved closer, a deep, booming laugh chilled her blood.
She looked down at her peep-toe Franco Sarto booties because she realized her feet had stilled. That’s what his laugh did to her. It halted function. Excised joy.
There had been no sign of him at Remy’s going-away party in Boston, a blessing she hadn’t fully appreciated at the time because she was so furious with her new acquisition. Maybe he and Remy weren’t all that friendly. That notion was a bright spark in the midnight of her mind.
“Get away from her.” It was out of her mouth before she had a chance to bite it back.
Billy Stroger turned at the sound of Harper’s voice echoing loudly in the hallway.
Isobel frowned. “Harper?”
On jellied spindles, Harper marched over to her sister and stood between her and the Cougars’ defenseman. Anyone viewing the scene would think two towering athletes were crushing the pygmy in their Harper sandwich, but she didn’t care. She would not have her sister flirting with this pathetic excuse for a human.
Billy grinned. It used to make her stomach flutter. Now it nauseated her. “Harper. Long time no see.”
Ever original. “Isobel, go up to the box.”
Isobel’s mouth dropped open. “Harper!”
Harper almost stomped her foot and pointed like she was sending her sister to her room. Realizing that she risked sounding like more of a nutjob than usual, she changed tack to conciliation. “Please. I need to talk to . . . Billy for a moment.” His name on her tongue tasted like ash.
She watched as Isobel walked away, worry on her face, her long stride making short work of the trip toward the elevators. Hauling in a deep breath, Harper turned and faced Stroger. He would never be Billy in her head, only on her lips to cover her dislike of him.
Almost six years ago and against her father’s express wishes that she stay away from romantic entanglements with the Rebels’ players, she had fallen into lust with Billy Stroger. He was so cocky, so assured, a demon on the ice, a danger to anyone near him. For six weeks they’d snuck around, meeting on the sly, stealing moments together. He had a temper, but he usually reserved it for play, channeling it into the martial atmosphere on game night. Until on one of those nights he was ejected for high-sticking, a deliberate move because he had a grudge against a forward on the opposite team.
Stroger nursed grudges like a miser would a top-shelf scotch.
She had slipped away from her father’s side in the viewing box and sought him out, needing to soothe this wild beast because that’s what a woman did for her man. She absorbed his pain, supported him although he was in the wrong. It’s what her mother had done, even with soul-crushing evidence of her father’s affairs. Even when he didn’t come home at night.
Harper was self-aware enough to know there were limits, but she was still figuring out where to draw the line. Billy was sometimes rough during sex, which she put down to his uncontrollable desire for her and the fact that they rarely had more than moments to spare. Just a dirty little fling with the owner’s daughter. All those times she’d let him inside her body for a quickie that barely lasted sixty seconds, and Billy was the only one getting off.
She had known the minute she entered the locker room that night that his fury was different. Mean and twisted, it tainted the air around him.
Babe, it’s okay. I’m here.
Shut up, Harper.
Billy, just talk to me. Let me help you.
Her soothing hand on his shoulder.
His hard knuckles across her mouth.
That had shut her up.
He was sorry—later—but then, men invariably were. She knew the reason for his remorse. He was worried about losing his place on the team, being tagged as a man who hits women, being charge
d with felony assault. He was worried his career would be over.
This man had struck her, busting her lip and drawing blood. Just once, though, because Harper wasted no time kicking that human trash fire to the curb. Off the team and out of her life.
Back in the present, he towered over her, his padding making him look taller and more menacing than ever.
“Hey, honey.”
The taste of vomit replaced the ash in her throat. “I can’t imagine what you’d have to say to my sister.”
“We know each other.”
Her heart jerked violently. That had better not be in the biblical sense.
Stroger smiled, a malevolent slash in his stupid face. “We worked on a charity gig for the Olympics together a few years ago. Got along pretty well. She sure didn’t have a whole lot of nice things to say about you.”
Harper couldn’t imagine Izzy airing the Chase dirty laundry in public. If they were alike in any way, it was that. Harper’s throat had constricted, words struggling to emerge and dying in the grip of her fear.
Stroger appraised her, sniffing out weakness. “So you got what you wanted, Harper, your own team of puppets to play with. Bet you were pissed to find you had to share it.”
“Don’t think you know me,” she snapped. “A few weeks of whatever you want to call what happened between us doesn’t give you an all-access pass into my head. Now I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother Isobel anymore.”
He leaned in, an ugly twist to his mouth. The years had not been kind, but perhaps kinder than Stroger had been on himself. He’d always liked to party hard, a pattern she saw now was so similar to her father’s that she almost slapped her forehead with duh.
The guy’s brand was asshole.
“Still jealous of your little sister? Some things don’t change. You never got enough attention from your old man. Poor little Harper, begging for someone to love her. We have a fight and you go sniveling to him with your woes. ‘Billy was mean to me, Daddy. Get rid of him, Daddy.’ ” He sniffed. “I didn’t like it at the time, but you did me a favor. Got me off that hellhole team that was going nowhere. And then you did it again, acquiring DuPre. That beat-up old has-been was dragging us down, so here you are doing me all sorts of solids. It’s like you’re working for me, honey.”