by Maria Luis
“I need to get you out of my system. You’re driving me insane. Fuck, you’ve been driving me insane all day. Forcing me to talk, wearing that sexy skirt. Pretending to fall in the street.”
A surprised laugh escapes me. “I did almost fall, actually,” I whisper.
“Almost,” he returns, just as softly, “but I saved you.”
The words yank at my heart. “You don’t save people, Andre. You plow into them and take what you need, just like you do on the ice.”
“Maybe I need you, have you thought of that?”
He’s killing me. He’s actually killing me, and now I’m thinking the impossible: would it be so bad if I let him touch me? But we’ve been there before. We’ve been there, and it didn’t work out, and it’s quite likely it wouldn’t work out now either. There’s too much bad blood between us.
“It’s been a week.”
In a voice husky with insanity—definitely insanity—he says, “And we have three more.”
“You said no sex.”
“I know.” His big body closes in on mine, his hands going to the wall on either side of my head. Immediately, I catch the scent of his cologne and it smells delicious. Like sandalwood mixed with fresh laundry. “You’re dating your penthouse-owning millionaire. I’m dating . . . women. We both like our lives, but maybe we just need to take care of this attraction. Or, at least, prove that it doesn’t exist once and for all.”
Does he really think it’s as simple as that? My chin tips back so that I can meet his glittering black eyes. “This isn’t a good idea.”
His gaze falls to my mouth. “I know that too.”
I curl my fingers around the railing, and try not to notice that in doing so, I inadvertently thrust my breasts forward. Against his chest, like a complete hussy.
I try one last time to hold my ground, to stand strong against the man who wrecked me and then finished me off by leaving. “I don’t like you.”
My voice isn’t quite steady. It isn’t all that forceful.
And Andre takes notice. His hand, the one to the right of my head, shifts over to lightly touch my face. The pads of his fingers are rough, abrasive against my skin, and, God, I love it.
“I don’t like you either.”
For some reason, I don’t think he’s telling the truth.
I worry that I’m not either.
My eyes flutter shut when his fingers gently trace the slope of my nose, and when his thumb brushes over my lips, I release a shuddered sigh.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he tells me softly. “I’m going to kiss you, and I’m going to make damn sure you go home thinking about it tonight. And then we’re going to return to our lives that we both like, and get back to what matters.”
My eyes snap open at his crude words, just as the elevator jolts to a halt and the doors slide open.
Get back to what matters? Is he serious?
With a hand to his (ahem) incredibly hard chest, I give a good shove. My ankle protests when I swoop down low to gather my discarded purse, and with a sharp tug at my skirt and my loose-fitting pink top, I put myself back in order.
Or, as in order as I can be, considering that Andre was less than thirty seconds away from kissing me.
I don’t turn around when he says my name the first time.
I don’t turn around when he says it the second time.
On the third time, I whirl back, thankful for the fact that the elevator has exited into a quiet hallway. I strut toward him, all business. Yes, I add a sway to my hips. Yes, I come at him with fingers pointing and at the ready.
I jab him once in the chest, and I’m not surprised when the flesh beneath my attack doesn’t budge.
He’s as hard as stone.
Now that I think about it, his heart is the same way.
Andre catches my wrist, his gaze dipping down to search my face in overt confusion. “What did I say?”
Unbelievable. See? This is why the man is enemy number one in the hockey world—he’s completely incapable of playing nice with anyone. I yank my hand out from his grasp. “Let me put it this way for you, Andre.” I point at him, then swivel my finger to point at myself. “This? Us? Never happening. You laid down the ground about no sex, and I’m completely fine with that. I don’t have sex with men who think that I don’t matter.”
Just like that, his expression shuts down. “Zoe—Zo—you know that I didn’t mean it like that.”
My hands go to my hips. “Then tell me how you meant it.”
His eyes go wide, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. “Jesus, Zoe, I have no idea. I’m just saying that it’d probably do us some good. Get the sexual attraction out of the way so we can live our lives.”
Fury heats my words when I counter, “I am living my life, Andre. I’ve been living my life since the day you screwed me in a goddamn laundry room, and then never spoke to me again.”
Silence meets my words. It’s the first time either of us has directly mentioned our past, and the awkwardness is palpable. I almost wish I could snatch them back. Except, no—no, I will not. He can’t just walk about as if nothing ever happened.
In a voice I wish wasn’t so testy, I mutter, “Nothing to say to that?”
His hand leaves his neck to scrape over the lower half of his face. “Let’s not do this here.”
My eyes narrow. “Are we going to talk about it on the way home?”
I mentally scoff. Home—like we share the same house, the same life, the same heart.
Utterly. Ridiculous.
Andre tugs on his ear. “Maybe we should just forget—”
Over the ringing in my ears, all I hear are excuses. I throw up a hand and his mouth clamps shut. “You know what? You’re right—it doesn’t matter. Not what happened then, or what happened after that. I don’t care. But don’t kiss me, Andre.” My heart pounds with adrenaline; it pounds so loud that all I can hear is the blood thundering in my head. “Don’t kiss me today, and don’t kiss me tomorrow.”
I won’t survive another round with him between the sheets. Not if he decides to up and leave me again, just like he did last time—not that we were anywhere between a set of sheets a year ago.
But as he stares at me resolutely, with an expression that borders on hollow, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right decision. If I’ve even read him correctly.
I remind myself as we silently head toward Fame’s office that this is for the best. Andre is a client—my client. I can’t go back down that road to temptation again. Not even if I’m tempted.
Not even if, for a few minutes today, I remembered the old him, the old us.
I have to be strong, because if I’m not, Andre Beaumont will use me and spit me back out when he’s done. Of that I have no doubt.
Chapter Eleven
ZOE
Twenty Days Left…
Over the next twenty-four hours, I can’t shake the sense that I’m missing something when it comes to Andre.
The nagging sensation follows me when I spend three hours on the phone, talking shop with local reporters about considering Andre for a feature piece. It follows me when I email three different charities, all with the purpose of signing Andre on as a sponsor. It doesn’t shake off when I end up in a near-argument with one of Andre’s dropped sponsors over the phone, either.
I can still hear the man’s derisive snort when I mentioned re-signing Andre during the next annual quarter.
“Beaumont?” he sneered at the start of our call. “Not happening. We only took him on because he won the Cup two years ago with the Red Wings, and even that ended up being a huge debacle with the CEO. You’ll excuse me when I say I’m not feeling up to another battle.”
“I can promise you that Mr. Beaumont has seen the errors of his ways,” I told the man, lying through my teeth. Call me Ms. Cynical, but I doubted Andre had seen the light on anything. “Regaining his sponsorship with your organization would also influence the opinion of others.” I took
a deep breath and went for broke. “You could singlehandedly make a difference in his career, if only you’ll say yes.”
“A man can’t change his stripes when they’re tattooed on, Miss Mackenzie. Beaumont is the same way.”
My fingers tightened around the receiver because, honestly? I felt the same way. “Shouldn’t we refrain from judging others, Mr. Campbell?”
“Perhaps,” Mr. Campbell murmured ambivalently.
“So, you’ll consider taking him back?”
“No.”
“Mr. Campbell,” I said, just short of begging, “Give him a chance.”
“Unlike you, Miss Mackenzie, my firm has decided that Andre Beaumont is all out of chances.”
Something about the way he said that struck me as odd. “What do you mean, ‘unlike me’?”
“The fact that you’re dating him again after your scandal last year? It doesn’t matter, Miss Mackenzie. The answer remains no. Have a good day.”
Dating him . . .?
As I stuff my arms into my leather jacket at the end of the day, I deduce that I’m no closer to figuring out the missing link to Andre’s unfinished puzzle, but it’s pretty clear to me that the people I’ve spoken to today think that Andre and I are a “thing.”
Over my dead body.
We haven’t even spoken since our almost-kiss in the elevator at Fame yesterday morning. If you’re wondering, our ride back to Boston was as awkwardly painful as you might imagine. I’m pretty sure that the only words we exchanged were at a highway-side gas station when he refilled his car, and I stuffed myself into a cramped restroom stall to pee.
“Zoe!”
At the sound of the female voice, I glance up. After a week of working for Golden Lights, Gwen James and I haven’t really stopped to chat since that very first day. She’s too busy, I think, dealing with clients who actually respect her, and I’ve been too busy wallowing in Dante’s ninth circle of hell with Andre Beaumont.
Sliding my purse strap over my shoulder, I tap a few keys out on the computer keyboard and shut the desktop down. “Heading home?” I ask her, hoping she won’t dig too deeply into my epic fail of a workday. The last thing I need her to know is that I’m on the verge of letting down Golden Lights Media in a big way.
With a shake of her head, Gwen’s long, red hair bounces like something out of a hair commercial. I’m slightly envious, if only because my dark hair rarely does anything but act like a wild child, completely untamed.
Stepping into my office, Gwen takes a quick look around before settling her hands on her hips. “Actually, I’m not heading home yet. I was hoping to catch you before you left.”
That doesn’t sound good. Clearly, I’m about to be given the can, and I’ll be forced to work at Vittoria for the rest of my life. Bracing myself for the worst, I squeak, “Oh?”
“Do you have plans tonight?”
I blink. All day I’d planned to head home and lick my wounds. Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve been in the field, but after nine hours of working toward a total crapshoot goal, I’m feeling rather sensitive.
Oh, God, I’ve lost my thick skin.
I wonder if it’s the sort of thing you can earn back, or, once you’ve become a certifiable watering pot, likely to cry at any moment a door shuts in your face, you’ve lost all hope.
“Zoe?” Gwen prompts, her blue eyes carefully studying my face. “You there?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m here. And, no, no plans.” My dad mentioned something about helping out again at Vittoria tonight, but as I’d rather not do so . . . “Did you need me for something?”
“The Blades are up against the Philadelphia Flyers tonight. Through the grapevine I heard that a few prospective sponsors will be up in the box, and I thought that perhaps . . . ”
The word “opportunity” flashes before my eyes like an actual slideshow, and I immediately stand to attention, my shoulders pushing back and my chin coming up. “I’ll go—this will be great.” Casting a quick glance down at my wristwatch, I note the time. “The game is starting in thirty minutes, isn’t it? If I leave now, I’ll make it with time to spare.”
“Great!” Gwen claps her hands together, adding, “Perfect. I really didn’t want to go alone.”
Alone?
“You’re coming along?” This cannot be good. “Is this a test to see how well I do out in the wild?”
“Oh, no!” She waves her hand in the air, dismissing me with just a flap of her slender arm. “Definitely not. You really should be there tonight because it might open some doors up for you. I’m just . . . Well, can I let you in on a little secret?”
Since I see no way out of saying no, and I’d also like to keep my job as long as possible, I shrug. “Sure, of course.”
Gwen cuts a swift glance to the door. Apparently satisfied that no one is eavesdropping, she tells me, “I totally made the mistake of dating one of the head guys in the Blades’ hockey administration. The General Manager, actually. And since he’s definitely going to be there tonight . . .”
“You want me there as a shield?” I throw out bluntly.
Her arms lift in a delicate shrug. “Think of it as being each other’s body armor. We can lend each other some much-needed support.”
Since Gwen James reminds me of a dolled-up piranha, it’s probably not a bad idea to have her around. Plus, if she gets to know me a little better, perhaps this stupid trial run will become a permanent gig. The thought of obtaining other clients besides the NHL’s bad boy enforcer brings a smile to my face.
“All right, let’s do this.”
One hour later, I’m regretting my life decisions.
Gwen is certainly a body shield, specifically in the literal sense. The woman is practically glued to my side.
We’re barely through the door to the owner’s box before Gwen bumps my shoulder with hers, like we’re suddenly best girlfriends. “Do you see him?” she whispers, except that it’s not really a whisper. I’m not sure she knows how to whisper. Her hand leaves my arm to point at a group of men in the far corner of the gray-carpeted room. “Right there. The one in the black suit.”
Ahem. They’re all wearing black suits.
My gaze scours the men, finally stopping on a decent-looking guy with coppery hair and a friendly smile. He looks wealthy, so probably Gwen’s type.
“Is that him?” I give him a little nod with my chin. Then I look down, and . . . the man is wearing vibrant red shoes.
“What?” Gwen shakes her head adamantly, then gives me a crushed look. “Absolutely not. Do I look like the kind of girl who’d go for a ginger?”
I blink. “Aren’t you a ginger?”
Gwen clucks her tongue. “Girl,” she says in that way people do when they’re about to school you on life, “it’s called hair dye. I’m not a natural redhead. Anyway, you didn’t hear that from me. Also, there are different classifications of redheads. There’s me, and I have a very deep cherry hue, and then there’s a carrot top.” Her blue eyes land on the man we’ve been talking about, and he must sense us watching him, because he glances over his shoulder.
His eyes fall right on Gwen, and I swear he looks like the heavens have opened up and gifted him a goddess. A goddess in the form of Gwen James, who gives the man a bright, white smile—and out of the corner of her mouth, says, “He’s a carrot top. Um, no thank you.”
I don’t even know what to say to that.
Her smile never fades when she points to the guy standing next to the man with the friendly “carrot-top” hair. “That guy,” she says triumphantly.
That guy turns out to be wearing what most would consider an eyesore: blue leather shoes, a flamingo-pink shirt, and pastel yellow chinos. He looks like Easter, if Easter were a person and not represented to the masses as a cartoon-like bunny bearing candy.
The words stick in my throat, and I cough into my free hand. “He’s, ah, very good-looking.”
The look Gwen gives me says she doesn’t believe me worth a damn. “You do
n’t have to lie. He’s not bad, looks-wise, but I will say that he is pretty fantastic in bed. What he can do with his tongue should be illegal—”
Nope, totally not going there. “Tell me how you met him!”
As Gwen waxes on about the Blades’ GM knocking boots with her between the sheets, I scan the owner’s box for familiar faces. I spent the entire cab ride studying important figures within the Blades’ organization, but now that I’m here . . . maybe it’s my nerves, but I just can’t bring to mind anyone that I reviewed.
There’s also the fact that for the first time in my career within PR, I feel . . . not quite comfortable. Back in Detroit, I had no troubles mingling. I talked with the Red Wings’ owner about his daughters. After the game, I waltzed into the team’s locker room to speak with my clients about what was needed from them.
I’ve seen more than my fair share of dropped towels, and know the exact reason why Detroit’s goalie went by the name “Shortie,” and I’m not talking about the height of his . . . body.
I was fearless.
And now . . . I run a finger along the collar of my silk shirt, peeling the material away from my flushed skin.
Holy cow, I think I’m having a panic attack.
I’ve never had one, and so I’m not sure if that’s what this is, but it certainly feels like it and . . . I need something to drink. Now.
The food and beverages are laid out on a buffet table along the back wall, opposite the glass overlooking the ice rink below. Members of the media, with press badges clipped to their shirts, walk around with audio recorders crammed below their mouths as they speak in low voices.
I don’t walk toward them. Instead, I beeline toward the buffet, leaving Gwen to trail after me or be left behind.
“Where are you—?” She cuts off, releasing a squeal that darts through my skull like pins and needles. “Oh, my God, we have to say hi.”
Her fingers latch onto my arm again as she spins me around and drags me toward the other end of the buffet table where a blonde is standing. Poor girl—she has no idea what’s coming her way.