Total Rush
Page 1
Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
Praise for the novels of Deirdre Martin
Fair Play
“Martin depicts the worlds of both professional hockey and ethnic Brooklyn with deftness and smart detail. She has an unerring eye for humorous family dynamics [and] sweet buoyancy.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-paced, wisecracking, and an enjoyable story… Makes you feel like you’re flying.”
—Rendezvous
“A fun and witty story… The depth of characterizations and the unexpectedly moving passages make this an exceptional romance and a must-read for all fans of the genre.”
—Booklist
“A fine sports romance that will score big-time… Martin has provided a winner.”
—Midwest Book Review
“Sure to delight both fans of professional ice hockey and those who enjoy a good romance.”
—Affaire de Coeur
Body Check
“Heartwarming.”
—Booklist
“Combines sports and romance in a way that reminded me of Susan Elizabeth Phillips’s It Had To Be You, but Deirdre Martin has her own style and voice. Body Check is one of the best first novels I have read in a long time.”
—All About Romance (Desert Island Keeper)
“Deirdre Martin aims for the net and scores with Body Check.”
—The Romance Reader(Four Hearts)
“You don’t have to be a hockey fan to cheer for Body Check. Deirdre Martin brings readers a story that scores.”
—The Word On Romance
“Fun, fast-paced, and sexy, Body Check is a dazzling debut.”
—Millie Criswell,
USA Today bestselling author of Mad About Mia
“Fun, delightful, emotional, and sexy, Body Check is an utterly enthralling, fast-paced novel. This is one author I eagerly look forward to reading more from.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“An engaging romance that scores a hat trick [with] a fine supporting cast.”
—The Best Reviews
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
TOTAL RUSH
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation edition / March 2005
Copyright © 2005 by Deirdre Martin.
Cover art by Monica Lind.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc..
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 0-425-20152-X
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
For my sister Allison, with gratitude for her love and friendship
Special thanks to
Lt. Dave Burbank and Lt. Gillian Sharp of the Ithaca Fire Department, whose willingness to take me inside their world helped make this book possible. Also firefighter Rob Covert, my CISD source.
Lt. John Miles of Ladder 35/Engine 40 in Manhattan, for allowing me to see how it’s done in the big city and answering my endless questions without complaint.
Assistant Fire Chief Mike Schnurle, Mark Spadolini, Wade Bardo, Dan Zajak, and anyone else I might have missed from IFD’s “D” shift. Your hospitality and friendliness made all the difference in the world to me.
The firefighters of Ladder 35/Engine 40 in Manhattan.
Thanks also to
My husband, Mark Levine, for his incredible patience.
Roberta Caploe, for allowing me to put her gorgeous apartment in three books.
Ken Dashow, for putting me in touch with Lt. John Miles.
Maggie Shayne.
Rachel Dickinson.
Dr. Brian Carpenter.
Elaine English and Allison McCabe.
And last but not least, Mom, Dad, Bill, Allison, Beth,
Jane, Dave, and Tom, who, along with Mark and
“the lads,” make everything worthwhile.
CHAPTER 1
“I need your help.”
Looking up, Gemma Dante smiled as her cousin Michael came bounding to the counter of the Golden Bough. As usual, the cozy, welcoming bookstore in Greenwich Village was filled with customers, some browsing among the bookshelves, others lounging in one of the plump armchairs Gemma provided. Soft Celtic music played, while the faint scent of lavender incense filled the air. The sense of serenity had no effect on Michael Dante, however. Right winger for the New York Blades, he was a man always in a hurry, both on the ice and off.
Gemma stepped out from behind the counter to give her cousin an affectionate hug. “ ‘I need your help,’” she repeated. “I think I’ll have that carved on my tombstone.” People instinctively came to her for aid and advice—not that she minded. She enjoyed playing the part of an offbeat Ann Landers to friends and family.
“Tombstone?” Michael feigned surprise. “I always figured when you went, you’d have some kind of moonlight cerem
ony where you’d be transformed into fairy dust and returned to the cosmos.”
“Remember that old Squeeze song that begins, ‘If I didn’t love you, I’d hate you’? I think of you every time I hear it, Mikey.”
“And I think of you every time I hear Donovan’s ‘Season of the Witch.’” He glanced around the store. “Not too many freaks today.”
Gemma ignored the crack, returning to her post behind the cash register. “What can I do for you?”
“There’s this new guy on the team, Ron Crabnutt. He was just called up from Rochester and he doesn’t know a soul in the city apart from us guys. He’s dying to go out with a ‘real New York woman.’ So I thought maybe—if you had time—you could break bread with him one night this week.”
Gemma looked dubious. “Are you trying to set me up on a date?”
“No, no, no,” Michael swore. “Well—yeah. It’s an act of kindness, you know? For someone who’s new to town.”
“I thought I was too ‘weird’ for your teammates.”
Michael snorted. “You’re too good for them! If you saw some of the skanks these guys hung out with…” He shuddered.
“Good to know I’m one up on the skanks, Mikey.”
He rounded the counter and gave her a bone-crushing squeeze. “Will you do it? He’s a really nice guy, Gem,, cross my heart. And who knows? Maybe you two will hit it off.” He winked.
Gemma chuckled. “I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”
“A relationship would be good for you.”
Gemma changed the subject. “Speaking of relationships, how’s Theresa? The baby?”
Michael smiled giddily. “Both doing great. The christening invitations just went out in the mail. You’re coming, right?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good. And Crabnutt? You’ll have dinner with him?” Gemma shrugged. “Okay. What have I got to lose? It might be fun.”
“I knew I could count on you!”
“That’ll be the second line on my tombstone.”
———
Goddess, why did I let Mikey talk me into this? Gemma thought, struggling to keep her eyes from glazing over. She had agreed to do this as a favor, and because it might fun. Little did she know she’d be listening to someone drone on ecstatically about his screwdriver collection.
“Now, your clutchhead tips have four points of contact—”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted Ron Crabnutt politely. “Could we talk about something other than screwdrivers?”
“Sure.” Ron looked wounded. “What would you like to talk about?”
“How about politics?”
“Well, I gotta be honest with you…” A mild grimace tugged at Crabnutt’s lower lip. “I don’t really give a monkey’s hinder about politics.”
Gemma blinked. Monkey’s hinder? “How about music, then?”
Ron’s face lit up. “You like Skid Row?”
“Skid Row?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Skid Row!” Ron exclaimed, smacking the table in disbelief. “They’re only the greatest band EVER.”
Maybe talking about screwdrivers wasn’t so bad after all. “I’m more into Celtic music myself. Solas, Loreena McKennitt…”
“Never heard of ‘em,” Ron grumbled. “If it doesn’t make your teeth rattle, I don’t want to know.”
Gemma deflated. “Right.” She decided to give it one more try. Perhaps a conversational push in the right direction would reveal unimagined depth to his personality. “Do you have any hobbies besides the screwdrivers?” she asked.
“Other hobbies.” Ron peered hard at his fork. “Hhmm.”
The longer he took to answer, the more Gemma knew the only depth she’d be exploring would be that of her own despair.
“I like gum,” Ron offered hopefully.
Gum, Gemma thought desperately. I can work with that.
“Collecting it or chewing it?”
“Chewing.” Ron bobbed his head thoughtfully. “Definitely chewing.”
“Me, too.”
She would have called it a night right then, but she didn’t have the heart. Ron looked so happy. And in the grand scheme of things, what was one night of her life? Sighing, she asked if he was a Bazooka or Juicy Fruit man. Another half hour passed. Crabnutt talked about Teaberry, curling, and then worked his way right back to Phillips cross slot screwdrivers. Not once did he ask Gemma what she did for a living or inquire what her hobbies were. Finally Gemma stifled a yawn. “It’s getting late. I really should be going.” She rose from the table.
Ron followed suit. “This was really fun,” he confessed shyly. Gemma’s heart went out to him. He was boring, but still. Uncomfortable, she peered down at her feet.
“Can I call you?”
Gemma lifted her head and saw Ron nervously pull at his collar. “Sure,” she returned softly, completely against her better judgment. She couldn’t stand the thought of hurting him. Besides, how many guys actually called after taking your number? She gave it to him.
Fastening the front of her cape, she was careful to lift the back of her hair out from under it. Ron paid the bill, and together they walked outside, where Gemma hailed a cab.
“Talk to you soon,” Ron said cheerily as he closed the door of the cab for her.
Once inside, Gemma was glad the turbaned cabbie was blasting the Jets game on the FAN. She’d had enough conversation for one evening.
———
Early the next morning, Gemma went to meet her closest friend, Francis “Frankie” Hoffmann, for breakfast. New Yorkers knew Frankie as “Lady Midnight,” a deejay whose sexy, deep-throated voice filled the airwaves between midnight and 6 a.m. every Monday through Friday on WROX, the city’s top-rated classic rock station. Gemma often met Frankie for an early-morning cup of coffee. Afterward, Gemma would head to her store in the Village, and Frankie would go home to crash.
Their favorite meeting place was the Happy Fork Diner on Thirty-fourth and Eighth, a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon run by two burly Greek brothers. Pushing through the heavy glass door, Gemma was greeted by the familiar smell of fresh coffee brewing. Sliding onto a booth’s narrow Naugahyde bench, she waited for Stavros to take her order.
“Ah, Miss Gemma.” Despite girth a pro wrestler might envy, Stavros always appeared out of nowhere, the steaming coffeepot in his gigantic, hairy hand dangerously full. “One taste. C’mon. One sip and you will never want to drink that peeswater tea again.”
Gemma clucked with mock disapproval. “You know I don’t do caffeine, Stavros.”
“So?” He jutted his chin out. “I bring you decaf. Best decaf in New York.”
Gemma batted her eyes at him, enjoying their little ritual. “Chamomile tea will be fine, thank you.”
“Bah,” he muttered, turning from the table. “An old lady’s drink.”
He’s right, it is an old lady drink.
Stavros returned with her tea, muttering under his breath in Greek as he served her. Just then Frankie pushed , through the door of the diner. On the air, Frankie sounded like a wet dream, her low, husky radio voice and teasing, kittenish laugh the perfect vocal accompaniment for the overnight hours. All the male listeners who called during her air shift begging for a date assumed she was a major babe. In truth, she was tall and painfully thin, with wispy blond hair she had a hard time styling and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her tiny stub nose.
“Sorry I’m late,” Frankie said in her real voice, pure Brooklynese. She slipped into the booth opposite Gemma. “The Rock showed up late.” The Rock, whose real name was Marshall Finklestein, was the jock on the air right after Frankie. He had a chronic problem telling the big hand from the little one.
Gemma squeezed her steeping tea bag before tipping a smidgen of soy milk into her mug. “I listened a bit between two and three. You sounded good.”
“I screwed up the lead-in to ‘Layla,’ but oh well. Win some, lose some.” Her gaze turned qu
izzical as Gemma’s words sank in. “What were you doing up between two and three?”
“Not sleeping.”
“Because—?”
“This and that.” She proceeded to tell Frankie all about her riveting evening with her blind date, Big Red. Frankie kept a straight face as long as she could. But when Gemma got to the part where Crabnutt expounded on the virtues of chewing gum as opposed to collecting it, she lost it. She burst out laughing, and so did Gemma. There were tears rolling down their faces by the time Gemma was done.
“Oh, Lordy,” said Frankie, swiping at her eyes. “I needed that.”
“So did I.”
“So, why the insomnia?” Frankie still wanted to know.
“I don’t know.” Gemma looked genuinely baffled. “I guess the date just got me thinking. Suppose I never find anyone?”
“I’m insulted you would even think that.”
Gemma ‘laughed. When she and Frankie were teenagers, they’d vowed that if they were both alone when they were old, they’d move in together. They’d rent male strippers, sunbathe nude, and ride motorcycles.
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re not going to be alone forever,” Frankie consoled.
The sympathetic tone acted as a tonic to Gemma. It always did. She and Frankie were as close as sisters. Then Frankie took a deep breath and said, “Okay, let me ask you something.” Gemma stiffened. “Okay, let me ask you something” was Frankie’s standard windup to hitting Gemma between the eyes with the brutal truth.
“What?”
“Can’t you cast a love spell for yourself?”
Gemma squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. Of course she could. But to her, witchcraft was a path centered around the reverence for nature she’d carried deep within her since she was a child. It was not about trying to bend nature to your will.