Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “I haven’t talked to her yet, but it was great. No reason it wouldn’t have been.”

  “Hmm. See you tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like he knows something you don’t,” Swifty said.

  “There’s nothing to know.” Emile climbed off the bike and wiped down with the towel. “I’m going to get this done and get out of here.”

  Usually after showering and dressing, Emile hung around as long as an hour signing autographs and posing for pictures, but not tonight. He did just enough so he wouldn’t look like Thor, who never signed autographs and was proud of it. Then he begged off, saying it had been a long night—though it hadn’t been. Not yet, but he could hope.

  He couldn’t wait to get home.

  Once in the car, Emile was always tempted to loosen his tie, but he never did. It had been drilled into him from a young age that that there were certain things hockey players did and did not do, and dress correctly on game day was a big do. As an older youth player, that meant dress pants, shirt, shoes, and a tie for arriving at and departing from the rink. But from juniors on, it had to be a full-blown suit. Ridiculous as it was, Emile could never shake the fear that if he loosened his tie when there was even a minute chance that he might be seen, Andre would know and find a way to break out of prison and beat the hell out of him.

  But he did loosen it once the Star View Towers elevator passed the thirteenth floor.

  He opened the condo door and called, “Amy?” but was met with silence and the light of one dim lamp.

  What the hell? Where was his hero’s welcome? His celebration? Hadn’t she seen him go into full side splits and throw himself on the puck belly-first? Hadn’t she been impressed when the puck had sailed over his shoulder and he’d come up from the butterfly position in a fraction of a second and caught it in his glove?

  Maybe she was hiding, waiting to surprise him—maybe naked in the kitchen. That would be sweet. But no. There was a note written in big letters on a legal-size piece of paper taped to the refrigerator. “FOOD IN WARMING DRAWER,” it said.

  He opened the drawer. There it was, and it was a thing of beauty—penne with alfredo sauce and what looked like blackened salmon. She must have noticed that he had ordered blackened salmon the night they went out to eat with Gabriella.

  But where was she? It would be too good to be true if she were waiting for him in his bed, but sometimes too good to be true happened.

  He went to his room.

  Baise-moi, merde, and all the rest of it! No Amy, but what was this? At first, he thought it was a pile of purple ribbons, like for a little girl’s hair. Then he took a closer look and realized to his horror the sweater he’d given her was on his bed, and it had been cut into narrow strips—hundreds of them! Why would she do this thing?

  He grabbed a handful of the carnage and stomped down the hall toward her room. He didn’t care if she was asleep, but she wasn’t—not unless she slept with the lights on.

  But he beat on the door with his fist as if he needed to wake a vampire from midday sleep. The way he was feeling, no polite little knock would do.

  “Amy! Are you in there?”

  To his surprise, she immediately threw open the door, looking every bit as mad as he felt.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He waved the purple strips in the air. “You destroyed my sweater.”

  “Yeah, how about that?” She leaned on the doorframe and crossed her arms over her breasts. She was wearing a nightgown—Gabriella’s no doubt. Pink with little flowers and wide straps on the shoulders. The only thing provocative about it was that it was a nightgown.

  But this was no time to be distracted. “Why? I gave this to you.” He held up the remnants again.

  “Are you aware that you look like a cheerleader shaking a pom-pom?”

  He looked at the mass of purple in his hand. “Bah! I could have won the Stanley Cup in this sweater.”

  “Did you?”

  He hadn’t. He’d donated that one to Open Hearts and Arms to be auctioned. But she didn’t know that.

  “Would it have mattered?”

  “Not one bit.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t understand?” She uncrossed her arms from her chest and put her hands on her hips. “You arranged for me to sit in the wives and girlfriends section! Without so much as one bit of warning! You knew I was apprehensive about wearing your jersey, afraid it would send the wrong message. But you sent me right in there to sit with all those women who had a right to be there.”

  Merde! Packi had been right, but Emile wasn’t giving in. “You had a right to be there. I said so. What I say matters. Sometimes.”

  “I am not your wife. And I’m not your girlfriend! Did you even stop to consider how embarrassing that might be for me?”

  He had not thought of her as his girlfriend. Had he? But what if he had? After last night, it wasn’t a completely illogical assumption.

  “Many would not be embarrassed to be my girlfriend. Many would have been happy to see me stop the puck with my crotch.”

  “You’re changing the subject. We aren’t talking about your crotch. We are talking about that WAG suite and how I had no business there.”

  “It’s not always only wives and girlfriends in the suite.”

  “True enough. There are also the offspring of players, of which I am not one.”

  “And sisters. When Gabriella is there, that’s where she sits. Same for when Paul and Johanna come to see me play, and the parents of my teammates.”

  “Emile, even the Bridgestone staff calls it the WAG suite. Don’t you stand there shaking your purple pom-pom and tell me you didn’t know that.”

  He threw his sweater ribbons against the wall. “It is not the official name. It is called the Player VIP Suite.”

  “You’re missing the point entirely, and you’re doing it on purpose.”

  “You worry about embarrassment overmuch. There is no reason to be embarrassed.”

  “Easy for you to say. You weren’t there.”

  His gut sank. What was it Packi had said? They don’t like outsiders. “But the women? They were nice to you?”

  “I didn’t stay long enough to find out. When I figured out what was going on, I left.”

  “You left? You didn’t see the game? You didn’t see me get the shutout?”

  “That’s right, Excellent Wolf.” And damn it all to hell, she smiled, and not a happy smile either. It was mean. Smug.

  Emile wanted to slam his fist against the wall, but he’d need his hand tomorrow. Instead, he slammed the disappointment deep inside him.

  “Well. That’s too bad. You missed a great game. You missed it because you were afraid of being embarrassed. Those women would have been nice to you. They like me.”

  “Which is why they wouldn’t have been nice to me.”

  “Sharon and Noel—they are my friends. They are nice women. Sharon even welcomes me to her home for holidays when I cannot go to North Dakota. You have no reason to think they would not have welcomed you. This makes no sense to me.”

  “Then let me explain it to you. Let’s take Noel. I met her a week ago—”

  “Eight days.”

  “All right. Eight days. I was engaged at the time—”

  “Except you weren’t. No ring.”

  “Okay. I thought I was engaged, ring or not, because I thought I was going to marry Cameron. I referred to him as my fiancé. Then I tried to buy a three-thousand-dollar quilt from her, and my cards wouldn’t work. I told her I would return for the quilt when Cameron came back for me and everything was straightened out. Only he never came back, and for all I know, that quilt is still sitting wrapped up waiting for me. I’m sure she thought I was lying or delusional or both.”

  “You’re making it sound worse than it was.” It would be best if she never knew he’d considered the delusional possibility.

  “I’m making it sound exactly like it had to look to Noel. Then here I come into the WAG
suite—wearing your jersey—the girl with no money who was engaged to someone else a week ago.”

  “Eight days. And you were not engaged. Snow was engaged—and not to you. If you think you were engaged, you are delusional!”

  She raised her hands and growled like a furious animal. “You are not listening to me! You’re the most stubborn man who ever lived.”

  “Calmez-vous. Drame! Drame! Drame! Tout sur rien. Je déteste drame!”

  “Give me strength!” She put her hands to her head and closed her eyes. “Would you please stop speaking that devil’s spawn language to me? You know I can’t understand you! It’s rude.”

  Rude! He’d never been rude a minute in his life. He was charming! It had said so just last week in Sports Illustrated. Sports Illustrated did not lie!

  “Vous pensez que vous ne pouvez pas me comprendre? Vous êtes la reine de la confusion!”

  Her face went from red to white. “I swear, if you don’t stop, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? Destroy my sweater? Leave the game and refuse to see me play?”

  “You just love yourself so much, don’t you, Mr. French Kiss?”

  He gave her his best smile—the one he used in the chocolate commercials. “Ah, you would like a French kiss, would you?”

  He’d meant it as taunt, of course, another way to win this argument. But all of a sudden, with the thought of his tongue in her mouth, winning didn’t matter anymore. His balls tightened and his cock sprang to life.

  When he looked into her face, her eyes, he thought he saw his own feelings reflected there. Her purple eyes were dark velvet, and her mouth parted the tiniest bit. He let his eyes drop just in time to see her nipples rise and show against the fabric of her chaste little gown. Doux Jésus, he wanted her.

  She took a deep, shaky breath, further evidence that she was feeling what he felt, but he couldn’t be sure. In the net, his instinct was nearly perfect. He could tell what an opposing forward would do by the rise of his shoulder and dart of his eyes. He never lost track of the puck’s location.

  But his instincts outside the net? Not good, in general, especially with women, and non-existent where Amy was concerned.

  Funny, it had never mattered before. He’d always just plowed on, bumbling as he went. Sometimes it worked out, sometimes not. But this time it mattered. He’d made so many mistakes with her, he needed to be sure.

  He put his fingertips to his mouth, kissed them, and slowly brought them to her lips. And waited. The look she gave him was one of conflict and—he was pretty sure—of desire.

  At last, she sighed a sweet little sigh and brought her own fingers to her lips and brought them to his mouth.

  That was all the encouragement he needed. He closed his eyes and relished the feeling for just a moment before drawing her into his arms and laying her head back so he could look into her lovely, lovely face. “Tu as de beaux yeux.” He stroked the corner of first one of her eyes and then the other and said, “Beautiful,” just so he could be sure she understood.

  “Merci,” she said in slow south Georgia French. It was one of the most endearing moments of his life.

  “Now, about that French kiss,” he said.

  Her mouth was open and eager when he bent his face to hers. Their tongues tangled together, slow, sweet, and wet. She made a little sound low in her throat that spoke of satisfaction and need all at the same time. His cock pounded, and he longed to rub it between her thighs and caress her breasts, but he wanted her to feel good and kissed first.

  Finally, it was she who broke the kiss. She placed a hand on his cheek, and his heart skipped a beat. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, but it excited him all the same, though not so much in his cock as in his heart. He couldn’t think how to describe her touch. Sweet? Tender? Caring? Yes, all of that.

  Her voice was raspy when she spoke. “I can’t not want you.”

  “I’m right here.” He let his hand graze her breast as he picked her up. “I’m taking you to my bed.”

  “Mine is closer.”

  “Oui, but the condoms are in my room.” And that was true—his only condoms. For the first time since he was fifteen, he had not replaced the condom in his wallet—hadn’t even thought about it. And he knew why.

  He had no intention of having sex anywhere except this condo with this woman in his arms.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When Emile jerked the comforter from his bed, purple ribbons flew everywhere.

  “Purple rain,” Amy muttered, as he lay her down. How had she gone from furious with Emile to such a different kind of hot in a matter of seconds? Or maybe she was still furious with him. It was hard to tell, turned on as she was.

  He looked confused. “Purple train?”

  “Never mind. I guess you don’t know Prince.”

  “No.” He smiled and dropped his eyelids. “But I know a princess.”

  He stood before her, his hair a mess, still in his suit with his tie barely loosened. He looked so good that she considered asking him to leave it on, to just undo his fly and come to her—but she changed her mind when he stripped off the coat, tie, and shirt at what seemed like the speed of sound. She caught her breath at the beauty of him.

  “Another time, I will want you to undress me,” he said, “but tonight there is no time.”

  Another time. She knew there shouldn’t be another time. He’d already assumed too much. But she’d known there shouldn’t be another time after last night, and here they were. If she stayed in his home, it was going to happen again and keep happening.

  He kicked his shoes off without untying them, and when he dropped his pants, his penis sprang out, hard and huge. “Ah. Is a relief. It was getting crowded in there.” He gave it a light little stroke, and Amy felt a fresh rush of moisture between her legs. What she felt must have shown in her face, because he did it again. “You like to see me do this? But you are much better at it than I am.”

  “Then come here.” She held out her arms to him.

  “In time. Will you take off your nightgown for me?”

  What? Sure, she could take it off, but was he expecting a striptease? Even if she knew how to do that, she didn’t have enough clothes on to do it effectively. So she just shucked it over her head and tossed it to the bottom of the bed.

  She had not expected the moan that escaped from him or the expression of lust that came over his face. After all, he’d seen her before.

  “Mon amour, you are not wearing underthings.”

  “Of course not. I was dressed for bed—not your bed. Bed for sleeping.”

  “Turns me on so much. Will you go without your underwear tomorrow? In the day? In your regular clothes?”

  “No.”

  “Even though it would please me?”

  “Even though. But I will try to please you tonight.”

  “Ah. Well. I guess I will take that. You are very beautiful. It pleases me to look at you.”

  Apparently it did, because he was still standing beside the bed like a statue of a Greek god, albeit a bruised one, and still had made no move to touch her since that kiss to end all kisses.

  “I am coming to you very soon,” Emile said. “But first, do one thing for me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes as in consent or a question?”

  Dear St. Cuthbert and all his followers! Could he not just get on with it? She needed to feel his hands on her—and his mouth. It wasn’t only beautiful; it was also magic. And he was willing to kiss parts of her that Cameron never had.

  “It sounded like a question,” he pressed on.

  “Tell me what you want, and I guess we’ll see.”

  “Ah, my clever girl. Touch yourself for me.”

  She was surprised, not so much at his request, but that she didn’t recoil. Yet, she hesitated, unsure of exactly what to do.

  “Please?” he coaxed.

  She almost asked where, but to hell with it. She’d just go for it and hope for the best. She ran her fingers
over one nipple and then the other as she stroked her inner thigh with her other hand. It was the look on his face, rather than her own hands on her body, that made her breath come faster and her blood boil a little hotter.

  “I know what you meant now,” Amy said.

  “About what?”

  “You are better at this than I am.”

  And that did it. He moved like a released spring that had been wound too tight, and he was beside her, naked, warm, and reaching.

  “You’re fast.”

  “Gotta be fast to stop the puck.” And with that, his mouth was on her breasts, his hand urging her thighs apart and slowly massaging, stroking, and squeezing there.

  “Roll on your side,” she said. “I can’t reach you . . . I want to touch.”

  He never stopped arousing her but rolled the two of them so that they were facing each other.

  When she reached for him, his penis jerked against her palm and he groaned.

  “Yes, that’s right. Slow . . . lightly. C’est bon! Oh, sorry. No French. It’s good.” And he went back to her breast—gently sucking one nipple, then the other, running his tongue between them.

  “Do you want to know the truth?” Amy asked.

  “Always. Mmm, you taste so good.”

  “It turns me on when you speak French.”

  “Ouais?” His head popped up, and he inserted a finger into her. “Belle chatte. Je ne peux pas attendre pour souffler en vous. This talk? It turns you on, ma belle?”

  “Well, maybe not as much as this.” And she rolled her pelvis against his hand and cried out.

  He removed his hand and swung around to sit up. “It’s time.”

  “Yes.” Past time. She rolled to her back and parted her legs.

  “Non. Tonight I have something special for you.” He reached into the bedside table drawer. “But first, I teach you to put on the condom.” Had he been able to tell last night that she didn’t know how to do it? “It’s much more fun this way.” He handed her the packet. “Open it. Be careful not to tear it with your nails. Yes. Now, stroke my cock a bit.”

  She was happy to comply. “But why?”

  “To get it hard.”