Sin Bin (Denver Rebels Book 3)

by Maureen Smith

  Definitely surreal.

  Needing to connect with Logan in some way, she reached under the table and put her hand on his, which was resting on his thigh.

  Without pausing his conversation, he turned his palm up and clasped her hand, caressing her knuckles with his thumb. A reassuring warmth spread through her, loosening the knot of anxiety in her stomach. But all too soon he pulled his hand from hers to reach for his glass of wine. When he didn’t reclaim her hand, her chest tightened with disappointment.

  Callum leaned over to ask her something about her job, which broadened into other topics. Lucien had probably done a thorough background check on her, but she answered Callum’s questions anyway. He seemed to appreciate her responses, and he didn’t mind sharing his own background as a working-class boy who graduated from Oxford and became Lucien Brassard’s right-hand man.

  He was intelligent, warm and witty. Not to mention good-looking. Ironically, with his green eyes and red hair, he looked more like Lucien than Logan did.

  During a lull in their conversation, Meadow turned her head to catch Chantal openly studying her, jealousy hardening her expression.

  When Meadow lifted a single eyebrow, Chantal turned away and took a sip of her wine, holding the glass by the stem. Her nails were flawless. Meadow found herself checking her own elegant manicure in comparison.

  Halfway through the main course, the Tremblays were still monopolizing Logan. Every time his father entered the conversation, Logan would withdraw and brood over his plate, lost in his own dark thoughts. He didn’t talk to Meadow. It was almost as if he’d forgotten she was there.

  Despite Callum’s best efforts to keep her company, she felt increasingly isolated and disconnected. On top of that, she was acutely conscious of other guests watching her, scrutinizing every move she made. She’d never been more grateful for the etiquette lessons she’d taken with her sorority. But knowing which fork to use didn’t lessen her growing angst, and being ignored by her boyfriend only made it worse.

  She ate very little and drank more champagne than she probably should have. She lost count of how many times the waiter returned to top off everyone’s glasses. The wine was flowing and all the guests were drinking their fill, so at least she wasn’t alone.

  “You’ve hardly touched your food,” Callum noted, gesturing to her plate. “Aren’t you enjoying the meal?”

  “I am. It’s delicious.” She smiled ruefully. “I guess the first three courses were more filling than I thought.”

  He chuckled. “Perfectly understandable.”

  She swilled down the last of her wine, frowning when Logan smoothly plucked the empty glass out of her hand and set it down. She hadn’t even realized that he’d been paying attention to her, much less monitoring her alcohol consumption.

  So she was stunned when he leaned close to murmur in her ear, “I think you’ve had enough champagne for one night. Why don’t you call it quits before you make yourself sick again?”

  Her cheeks burned with humiliation. How dare he throw that awful episode back in her face?

  She could tell he regretted it the moment he said it. But it was too late. The damage had been done.

  “Babe, I’m—”

  “Fuck you,” she hissed sharply under her breath before turning away from him.

  Across the table, Chantal was watching them, her eyes glimmering with amusement. She was clearly enjoying Meadow’s misery.

  Refusing to give her any more ammunition, Meadow cheerfully resumed her conversation with Callum. As they talked and laughed, she could see Logan stealing dark glances at them. She ignored him.

  Toward the end of dinner, Callum excused himself and got up to whisper something in Lucien’s ear.

  Lucien nodded and wiped the corner of his mouth with his monogrammed napkin. After exchanging a tense look with his wife, he rose from the table and followed Callum to the front of the room.

  Logan watched them closely, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Meadow felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Something was up.

  Callum spoke into a microphone. “May I please have everyone’s attention?”

  The orchestra stopped playing and the din of voices quieted, all eyes turning toward the front of the room.

  “Thank you for your indulgence.” Callum smiled graciously. “Mr. Brassard would like to make a few remarks before we open the floor for dancing.”

  Callum handed the microphone to his boss, who stepped forward and looked out over the crowd with a benevolent smile. “My esteemed friends and colleagues, thank you all for coming this evening. I hope everyone enjoyed the excellent cuisine prepared by my executive chef, the world-renowned Basile Pelletier.”

  The room broke into appreciative applause.

  “Magnifique.” Lucien beamed with satisfaction. “By now you’ve all noticed that we have a very special guest in our midst this evening.”

  As every head swiveled toward Logan, another round of applause and cheers swept the room.

  Lucien grinned like a proud papa. “As you all know, Logan plays for the Denver Rebels. But we won’t hold that against him tonight.”

  Laughter erupted from the crowd.

  Logan was stony-faced, which made it seem like he was in on the joke. Meadow knew he was anything but amused.

  “Like many of you,” Lucien continued warmly, “I’ve been a big fan of Logan’s since his junior hockey days with the former Mississauga St. Michael’s Majors. His jaw-dropping talent electrified fans and had many of us dreaming of seeing him in a Maple Leafs sweater. Sadly, that didn’t happen—” Lucien paused as a smattering of boos and grumbles spread through the room. “I know, I know. It was highly disappointing. Cabe Landrieu is a fellow Canadian and an old friend of mine, and I still haven’t forgiven him for stealing Logan from us.”

  This drew more hearty laughter before Lucien continued. “At any rate, I’ve never stopped rooting for Logan and wishing him all the success in the world. That said, if the Rebels and Leafs end up meeting in the Stanley Cup Final, well…”

  There was another eruption of laughter. A few good-natured taunts were thrown at Logan, who smirked and raised his glass in a mock toast, drawing more laughter and ribbing.

  Lucien waited for the noise to die down before he spoke again, all traces of humor gone. “Twenty-five years ago, I was earning my master’s degree at the University of Toronto when I met an extraordinarily beautiful young woman named Marisol. She was a freshman studying art history. She loved visiting museums and poring over artifacts, and she could spend hours discussing the symbolism in Frida Kahlo’s work. She was the most captivating woman I’d ever met, and I was crazy about her. But she didn’t have the right background or pedigree. She was the daughter of a Las Vegas mechanic and an Argentinian hotel clerk. To further complicate matters, I was already engaged to my first wife.”

  Lucien shook his head, looking pained as he confessed, “I was young, immature and selfish, and truthfully I didn’t want to risk losing my inheritance. So I told Marisol we could never be together, and I walked out of her life. Not long afterward, I found out she was carrying my child.” He paused, looking slowly around the room. “That child was Logan Brassard.”

  A stunned silence fell over the room.

  Meadow put her hand on Logan’s shoulder. His muscles were so rigid it was like patting cement covered in expensive Italian wool. He was gripping the stem of his glass so hard she expected it to snap any moment. Thankfully the glass was empty.

  As astonished whispers swept through the crowd, Lucien’s gaze settled directly on Logan. “I’m not proud of the way I treated you and your mother. In fact, I’m downright ashamed of my abominable behavior. The repercussions of my actions—”

  The stem of Logan’s glass snapped in his hand.

  The loud sound had heads whipping around. As a waiter rushed over to sweep up the broken glass, Meadow tried to check Logan’s hand to make sure he hadn’t cut himself. But he brusquely waved her off, his ha
rd stare fixed unwaveringly on his father.

  “As you all know,” Lucien continued, addressing his slack-jawed guests, “Logan doesn’t need my money. He’s got plenty of his own. But I want him to know that I’ve included him in my will—”

  Shocked gasps erupted from the crowd.

  “—and whenever he retires from playing hockey, he can take his rightful place in the Brassard Foundation, if he so chooses.”

  The crowd was buzzing louder than a colony of swarming bees. The wine Meadow had drunk churned and soured in her stomach.

  Logan was glaring at his father. If looks could kill, Lucien would be deader than his ancestors.

  He swallowed visibly and pressed on. “In the coming days and weeks, Logan, you may hear some hurtful things about my motives for delivering this speech tonight. As rich and powerful as I am, I can’t control gossip and speculation. The most important thing you need to know is that I deeply regret what I did to you and your mother. If I have to—”

  Logan scraped back his chair and stood.

  A pin-drop silence gripped the room.

  The tension between father and son crackled like a live wire as they stared at each other.

  Meadow gently touched Logan’s arm. “Baby—”

  “I’m going for a walk,” he bit out.

  She started to rise from her seat. “I’ll come with—”

  “No,” he barked. “Stay here.”

  Her heart twisted as she and everyone else watched him stalk out of the room.

  That was when she knew beyond a doubt that coming here had been a mistake.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  LOGAN

  “Fucking son of a bitch!” Logan raged, ripping open the knot of his tie as he stormed down the staircase to the lower deck.

  Just as he’d suspected, his father had lured him to the party under false pretenses. He’d never intended to share more details about Logan’s mother. He’d summoned him there to witness his performance as a contrite father owning up to his past mistakes, atoning for his sins, doing the noble thing. He’d wanted to make himself look good in front of his billionaire cronies. It was all just for show. Nothing but theater.

  Fuming, Logan reached the lower deck, turned right and kept walking until he came to the underwater lounge. It had an oval skylight, curved white couches and a wall of glass that looked below sea level. The room was bathed in a soft blue glow from aquarium-style lighting.

  Logan marched over to the glass wall and began pacing back and forth. His father’s speech was ringing in his ears, boiling his blood with volcanic fury. Chest heaving up and down, he loosened the top buttons of his shirt, trying to get air into his tight lungs.

  He could hear his father’s voice, every word dripping with false remorse. The man deserved a fucking Oscar for that performance he’d just put on. Many would praise him for his bravery, courage and transparency. In reality he was a master manipulator with the heart of a coward.

  Snarling with fury, Logan slammed his fist against the wall, vibrating the thick glass. Every cell in his body was clamoring for revenge. He wanted to extract a pound of flesh. He wanted to make the old man suffer in the worst possible way.

  His phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the text from Jupiter. Where are you? I’ll come to you.

  He frowned and shoved the phone back in his pocket without replying. He knew he was wrong for shutting her out. She loved him like no one else and had been nothing but supportive. She deserved better than the way he’d been treating her today. He had every intention of making it up to her when they got back home tomorrow. Right now he just wanted to be left alone.

  Hearing a whisper of movement at the door, he turned his head. “Jupiter?”

  “No,” a woman’s sultry voice rose out of the blue-tinged darkness. “It’s me.”

  He frowned as his stepmother came slinking toward him like a cat, a seductive gleam in her eyes.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he growled.

  She smiled, unfazed by his harsh words. “I see you found Lucien’s favorite hiding place. Like father, like son.”

  “Hardly.” Logan turned away to stare out into the murky depths of the water.

  “It’s not much of a view until we get out on the ocean. That’s when you can see the bluefin tuna, sea turtles, jellyfish, whales, sharks. It’s rather stunning. Maybe someday you can join us on one of our family cruises.”

  Logan was silent as Chantal came to stand beside him at the window, her expensive perfume wafting around him.

  “That was quite a dramatic exit you made. Tongues will be wagging for years.” She chuckled low in her throat. “I must say, you’re not behaving like a man who was just promised a share of an $18 billion fortune.”

  “I don’t want his fucking money,” Logan snarled.

  “Take it, anyway. You’re just as entitled to an inheritance as your brother and sister. It’s your birthright.”

  He snorted harshly and shook his head. When his phone buzzed again, he ignored it.

  Chantal gave him an amused look. “Shouldn’t you get that?”

  He didn’t respond.

  She sighed. “Meadow is a very lovely girl. Callum is certainly taken with her. But I wouldn’t have pegged her as your type.”

  Logan scowled. “What would you know about my type? You don’t know shit about me.”

  “I know enough.”

  “You don’t know shit.” He propped a shoulder against the window and raked her with a taunting look. “So why haven’t you given the old man a child yet? Isn’t that one of the reasons rich guys trade in the first wife for a newer, younger model? To produce more offspring? Aren’t you supposed to help your husband achieve immortality through his progeny?” He smiled mockingly. “Or are you worried that motherhood will ruin your girlish figure? Are you just arm candy, Chantal? Or does your husband expect you to breed more sons?”

  Her mouth tightened.

  Logan searched her face. “What’s wrong? Are you and my father having fertility issues?”

  Her blue eyes hardened. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Ahh. So that’s why you haven’t given him another heir.” Logan wagged a warning finger at her. “Better watch out. You know what happens to women who stop being useful to Lucien. He discards them like yesterday’s trash. And then, of course, you’ve got karma breathing down your neck.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What karma?”

  Logan lifted an eyebrow. “Weren’t you his mistress while he was married to his first wife? Surely you’ve heard the saying ‘How you got him is how you’ll lose him’?”

  Chantal looked like she wanted to slap him. “You really are your father’s son, aren’t you?” she hissed. “Salaud.”

  He laughed. “Well, technically, I am a bastard. So you’ll have to come up with a better insult than that.”

  That drew a small smile from her. “Do you speak French, Logan?”

  “No.”

  She laughed. “And yet I’ve seen you conduct postgame interviews entirely in French.”

  He smirked at her. “If you already know that I speak French, why did you ask?”

  She smiled, slithering closer. “Just making polite conversation.”

  He gave her a sardonic look. “Is that why you followed me down here? To make polite conversation?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question.” Dropping all pretenses, she pressed her body against his, sliding her hand inside his tuxedo jacket to rub his chest.

  “Mmm, look how strong you are,” she purred appreciatively. “You’re the new and improved version of your father, although I don’t think Luc has ever been this ripped before. My God, Logan. Your workout regimen must be positively insane.”

  Logan felt numb to her words, numb to her touch. He peeled her hands from his chest and turned away from her. “You need to go.”

  “I don’t want to. And you don’t want me to either,” she said coyly, sidling up
beside him and rubbing against his arm. “I know you think I’m beautiful and sexy. I’m a little older than you, and you find that intriguing—”

  Logan gave a harsh snort of laughter and turned his head to look at her. “You actually think I’m intrigued by my father’s trophy wife?”

  She lifted her chin. “I know you are.”

  He laughed at the ceiling before looking at her again. “Let me put this in the crudest possible terms so there’s no misunderstanding. I’ve fucked more women than I can recall—young, old and everything in between. And you know what? None of those broads meant shit to me, before or after. There’s only one woman I’ve ever made real love to, whose body I cherish and can’t get enough of—”

  She smirked. “Let me guess. Meadow?”

  “Damn right. She rocks my fucking world every single time we come together. Apart from her, sex is pretty much a transaction to me. A necessary outlet. A temporary release.” He raked Chantal with a coldly amused glance. “Fucking you would be no different. The second I busted a nut, I wouldn’t give you a second thought. But you, on the other hand…” He trailed off with a smirk.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that I would become obsessed with you if we slept together?”

  “Let’s just say you wouldn’t be the first.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Someone thinks rather highly of his sexual prowess.”

  “With good reason. I said sex is mostly meaningless to me. Never said I wasn’t good at it.”

  She stared at him. Her eyes were bright with excitement, the thrill of the challenge. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or turned on.” She grinned. “I think I’m both.”