The Czar: A Standalone Hockey Billionaire Novel

by Selena Laurence

  I point to my apartment. “My place,” I answer, one eyebrow raised.

  Her face goes pink and I chuckle. Then she bends down to pick up the keys she dropped. I barely manage to keep from checking out her ass again.

  “So, your professor apparently didn’t tell you the secret to opening the doors in this building,” I say as I gently lift the key out of her hand and slip it into the lock. “First left.” I twist the key counterclockwise. “Then right a half turn.” I twist it back a hundred and eighty degrees. The lock clicks and the knob turns in my hand. I push it open and gesture for her to walk through.

  “Okay,” she admits grudgingly. “I’m impressed.”

  “Now that you know the trick you’ll be a pro.” I grin at her, then in a less than graceful move I bend my good knee, letting the braced leg swing behind me, and scoop up her duffle bag from the floor. “Come on, let’s check out your new digs.” I sweep my arm out again, encouraging her to walk ahead of me. I’m hoping that she’ll be too polite to wrestle her bag out of my hand and tell me to fuck off. My gamble pays out when she nods and steps over the threshold. I follow close behind. I’m fully aware that if I weren’t a celebrity she would never let me inside like this. It’s one of the perks, but also the reason celebs who aren’t good guys can be so dangerous. People mistakenly think that because they recognize you it means they know you.

  We make our way into the apartment that’s the same floor plan as mine, but decorated entirely differently. The floors are wood like mine, but a light ash color, the walls are gray and the furniture is all glass and chrome. A huge black leather sectional is the most prominent piece of furniture, and the walls host a few framed pieces of modern art, the only bits of color in the space.

  I set her bag down on a barstool and put my hands on my hips taking a look around. “I’m Mick, by the way,” I say, holding out my hand.

  She smirks as she shakes it, and when her skin touches mine my insides do a little merengue. “Yeah, I sort of figured that one out. I’m Solana.”

  “Welcome to the building, Solana,” I say, not releasing her hand even as she tugs slightly.

  For the first time in five months my interest is piqued, and I’m not about to let the object of that interest escape.

  Game on.

  6

  Solana

  Oh sweet baby cheeses, I’m standing here shaking hands with Mick The Czar Petrovich. And he really is every bit as mouth watering as he looks in pictures. He’s also my boss’s son, and the fact that he lives next door to my professor, who is a consultant for my boss, can’t be a coincidence.

  “Thanks.” I finally extract my hand from his firm grip. God, his skin is rough, and hot, and I think something in my panties just melted. “Do you, by chance, own this building?”

  “My family does, yes,” he responds, the deep rumble of his voice making everything inside of me vibrate.

  “Okay, now it makes sense. The woman I’m housesitting for, my professor, she’s a consultant for Petrovich Vodka.”

  “Yes,” he agrees. “I remember that. Not everyone in the building is connected to Petrovich, but my father tries to rent to people he knows when it’s possible. It’s an old Russian thing, nepotism is popular in the homeland.”

  I smile before a noise in the corner behind us catches his attention and he turns to find the source.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I huff as I start toward the instigator of the sound. “We are not going to do this again, Ambrose. Your mother thinks you love me, and we’re going to keep her blissfully ignorant, no matter what.”

  Mick peers around me, looking at the large gray Persian cat who is hunched down in against the wall growling, menace on his face.

  “I think he’s just scared,” he tells me, watching the cat’s large yellow eyes as it hisses.

  “He’s the devil,” I answer, trying to stare the beast down. “Nothing scares him. But he’ll spend the next few weeks trying to hunt my feet and when he catches them he scratches my ankles up and bites me so hard he breaks the skin.”

  Mick chuckles, as if he thinks the whole thing is cute. “Let me have a talk with him,” he tells me. “Man to man.”

  I look at him over my shoulder, disbelief etched on my features.

  “Seriously. I’m good with animals.”

  I sigh and hold out my arm. “Be my guest, but watch your fingers, he’s liable to bite one off.”

  Mick moves past me and bends over, hands on his knees in front of the cat who adjusts his aggressive posture and begins licking one of his paws.

  “Hey,” he tells Ambrose as he puts his hand out. “You really need to be nicer to her. She’s the one who controls your food for the foreseeable future, and things could get pretty ugly, know what I mean?”

  Ambrose arches his back, stretches, then saunters toward Mick. He scratches behind the cat’s ears and Ambrose bumps against Mick’s brace, rubbing his head on the Velcro straps as he purrs. Mick pets him and then Ambrose stands on his hind legs and puts his front paws up on Mick’s knees. He lifts him up, flips him on his back like a baby and cradles him in one arm.

  “No way,” I whisper astonished as I watch. The cat continues to purr as Mick scratches his tummy. Okay, I admit, if The Czar scratched my tummy like that I’d probably purr too.

  “He’s not so bad,” Mick says. “I told you he was just scared.”

  “What are you, like the cat whisperer or something?” I know my jaw is dropped in amazement.

  “I could go so many places with that—pussy tamer being only one.”

  I feel my cheeks heat as he grins at me. My. God. That grin. It could cause women’s clothing to spontaneously combust.

  “Here, give him a pet, he’s fine now,” Mick says and steps closer to me.

  I put my hand out to touch Ambrose and a low grumble erupts from his chest.

  “Dude,” Mick warns, glaring down at him. The cat puts his ears back slightly, but doesn’t make another sound as I stroke him tentatively. After a few seconds he squirms and Mick lets him flip and drop to the floor. Ambrose sashays off to the couch where he curls up and moves on to grooming himself.

  I stare at the big hunk of hot man and hockey greatness for a few silent seconds, then shake my head chuckling. “You open impossible locks, tame wild beasts, is there anything you can’t do?” I joke.

  “Yeah,” he answers, so fast he must not have a chance to think better of it, “play professional hockey.”

  I try not to let it show, but it’s pretty hard to be impassive about something like that.

  “Don’t—” He holds up his hand to stop me from saying anything else. “I’m not having a pity party, so hold the condolences.”

  So, he doesn’t want pity, and I get that, and really when I think about it for a moment, he’s about the least likely candidate for pity that there is. “It’s pretty hard to feel sorry for a guy who won two Stanley Cups, a gold medal, played pro hockey for five years, has a few billion in the bank, and looks like a male model,” I toss off as I walk to the kitchen.

  “Well, hell,” he says, following me. “In five months I don’t think anyone’s ever had that particular response to the whole thing.”

  He leans against a counter, one eyebrow raised as I open cabinets until I find the K-cups and pull two out. I wiggle the cup in my hand, silently asking if he’d like some coffee.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, feeling guilty. “I didn’t mean to be unkind, and I can’t possibly know what you’ve gone through.”

  He seems to accept my apology. “It’s okay,” he says in a gentler voice. “Fresh start?”

  I smile, oddly relieved that he’s not offended. “Yes. I’m Solana Warner, and I’m going to be your neighbor for the next few weeks.” I hold out my hand for him to shake again, and can’t help the butterflies that start in my tummy as his skin touches mine.

  “Mick Petrovich, former NHL player and now full-time lay-about until I decide what to do
next.” His words are cavalier, but his expression is anything but.

  “So, no idea what comes next? I’m sure something amazing will present itself. I can’t imagine anyone more likely to get job offers than you.”

  I set the coffee to perk and watch him now. His expression is wary as he rubs a hand over his perfectly stubbled jaw.

  “Yeah, well, I get daily offers from my father.” His voice drops then, almost as if he’s talking to himself rather than me, “And I’d rather die than work for Petrovich Vodka.”

  I freeze for a moment, my back to him as I reach to pull the coffee mugs out of the Keurig. He’d rather die than work for Petrovich? I’m stunned. I can’t imagine in my wildest dreams how anyone could resent having a legacy like that, something that will outlast people and relationships, something that is an anchor in the storm of humans and their mercurial natures. How can he not realize how incredibly fortunate he is to possess something like Petrovich Vodka?

  I turn, trying to keep my face impassive, and hand him his cup of coffee. “I guess a lot of people wouldn’t want to work for their parents,” I observe, taking a sip of the hot heaven in my hand.

  He looks into his cup as if it might hold the secrets to the universe. “I’d have no problem working for my father, it’s Petrovich Vodka I can’t stomach.”

  Now would be the time. The perfect time to tell him that I do, in fact, work at Petrovich Vodka. I need to tell him so that he understands why I can’t continue to have coffee and conversations with him. I need to tell him so that if his father ever finds out I know his son, Mick can vouch that it was all a coincidence. I need to tell him.

  But I don’t. No, instead I stand here and watch his biceps as he lifts the cup to his full, dark lips and drinks. I observe the broad expanse of his chest, and the way his unruly hair curls over the tips of his ears. Basically, I stand here and lust for him instead of being honest, and sending him on his way like I should.

  “Okay, so the family business is out. Maybe you could go into TV?”

  He gives me a wry smile. “Maybe. You did say I look like a male model after all.”

  I put my face in my hands, shaking my head. When I come out from hiding he’s full on grinning at me. “It was an expression,” I tell him, trying not to smile myself. “I simply meant you’re a reasonably attractive guy, I’m sure that will be an asset in whatever field you decide to go into.”

  “Reasonably attractive, huh?” He looks at me, all heat and liquid lust. “I’m not sure that’s going to do. I liked the whole male model thing better.”

  I roll my eyes at him. “Now you’re just fishing.”

  He winks. “Maybe.”

  We discuss the building for a few minutes, he tells me which concierge is the most helpful, how to find the rooftop deck and the pool. Then, when he takes the last gulp of his now cool coffee, he sets the mug down on the counter and steps closer to me.

  “How long did you say you’re here for?” he asks, watching me like he’s a hawk and I’m dinner.

  I swallow and press my back end against the kitchen counter. “A few weeks. We’re not really sure yet. It was a family emergency that took my professor out of town.”

  He nods and takes another step closer. I can smell him, citrusy and male. Hot.

  “And what does your boyfriend think about you housesitting over here all by your lonesome?” he asks.

  “I don’t have a boyfriend,” I answer, my voice a bit shaky.

  He rests one hand on the counter next to my hip.

  “Well, isn’t that fortuitous.” He leans closer, taking a deep breath as if he’s sniffing me. Holy Hell.

  “I think the next few weeks could be a lot of fun, Solnishka.” He taps my nose with his finger. “That’s sunshine in Russian in case you couldn’t figure it out,” he whispers.

  “I should probably feed the cat now,” I squeak, trying to move away from him, even though there’s no place to go.

  He puts his other hand alongside my other hip so he has me caged against the counter now. My breath is coming rapid and shallow, and everything south of my belly button has started to tingle and ache.

  “The cat will let us know when he needs to eat. But maybe you could give me a tour of the apartment? We could start in the bedroom.” He grins. “See if the professor’s mattress is hard. You like hard things, right?”

  Relief washes through me as the heat inside goes cold at the same time, because that was a terrible proposition. Absolutely no finesse, and thank God, because I’m risking my job every second I’m here with him, and I need to pull it together and stop this thing in its tracks.

  “You know, I think it’s time for you to go,” I announce, pushing his arm aside and walking to the front door.

  “What? We were just getting to know each other, Solnishka.”

  “Until you gave me the worst line I’ve heard from a man since I was a teenager.”

  He scratches his head and looks genuinely perplexed. It’s so cute I almost forget I’m trying to throw him out.

  “I’m sorry?” he asks rather than states.

  “Yeah, you should be.” I’m overplaying this, but I have to if I’m going to get rid of him. And I really need to get rid of him. “But you can apologize by leaving now.”

  I swing the front door open and plant my hand on my hip, staring at him impatiently.

  He walks slowly to the doorway, stopping to look at me. He’s still confused and I can almost see the neurons firing as he tries to figure out the rapid shift in mood.

  “I, uh, don’t normally piss women off like this,” he tells me.

  “You must be hanging out with the wrong women then. Maybe you should go find some better ones to spend time with.”

  He nods, his brow furrowed. “I think you’re right,” he answers thoughtfully.

  “Thank you for the advice about the locks and the building,” I say tersely.

  “Sure.” His expression is grim as he walks out. I don’t give him a second look before I close the door. Then I collapse against it, a trembling mess of conflicting emotions. If I ever get within ten feet of that man again I might not survive. One hour with The Czar nearly ruined me.

  7

  Mick

  The team is in town this week, and Deke and some of the other guys ask me to grab some dinner with them after practice. You’d think something simple like dinner wouldn’t cause an existential crisis, but you’d be wrong. Because as much as I miss my friends, I miss hockey more, and so I’m torn between wanting to see them and not wanting to be reminded of what I can’t have anymore.

  “Dude, get your ass downstairs,” Deke says as I answer his call. I’m sprawled on my sofa, remote in hand, some crazy Kung Fu thing playing across the screen as I try to ignore the ache in my hip.

  “Why?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “Because we’re meeting everyone at Sandrino’s for dinner.”

  “I didn’t agree to go,” I remind him.

  I hear cars honking and he curses. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hurry up, I’m parked illegally and the Uber drivers are getting their Priuses in a twist.”

  Then the call ends abruptly and I sigh. Because I have to go and he knew this when he drove over here and planted his giant SUV on the street in front of my building.

  Five minutes later I’m ensconced in the passenger seat of his Mercedes GLS. “What if I didn’t want to go to dinner.”

  He shoots a dark look at me. “You need to get out more and the guys want to see you.”

  I snort and mutter something along the lines of “pity party”.

  “Fuck off,” he tells me. “You were the captain of the team, man. The guys looked to you for leadership and inspiration. With you gone there’s a void, and they’re struggling. You owe them some of your precious time.” He looks at me briefly, one eyebrow raised, and the implication that I’m selfish written all over his face.

  “Fine,” I mumble before turning to look out the window as Deke is about to pull
away from the curb. My head twists further and further to the right as I spot a head of blonde hair slipping out the double glass doors to my building. I lean forward, cranking my head nearly one hundred eighty degrees to watch her while she walks down the sidewalk. I curse under my breath as a particularly big guy gets in my line of sight, blocking my view of Solana.

  “What’s eating you now?” Deke asks, honking at a taxi that nearly takes his sideview mirror off as he tries to pull into the traffic lane.

  Solana is swallowed up by the crowd, and I reluctantly turn back to look out the front windshield.

  “Just drive the car,” I grumble.

  For once, Deke shuts it, and I’m left to brood in peace. It shouldn’t matter, but it really bothers me that I struck out so thoroughly with her. I realize I wasn’t the smoothest, but hell, I’ve said and done a lot worse and never had any woman react that badly. And I shouldn’t care. There are a hundred other women who are just as hot that I can snap my fingers and have right now.

  The problem is, I suddenly don’t want any of them. In the five days since Solana threw me out of her apartment I haven’t made one booty call. Not one. And every night when I’m falling asleep, all I can see when I close my eyes is her soft wavy hair, that smooth skin and those big brown eyes as they looked up at me in the moments before I opened my big mouth and blew it all.

  Then my thoughts turn from brown eyes and smooth skin to soft curves and that smart mouth. She thinks for herself, that one. She’s about as far from a puck bunny as it gets. And maybe that explains why puck bunnies don’t seem to interest me now. Because she does interest me. I don’t know why, but she does.

  We pull up in front of Sandrino’s, a kicked back sports bar where guys from my team like to hang out—the team I mean, not mine. Not mine ever again. The reminder of that sends a bitter taste into my mouth, and a frown onto my face.

  “You’re crankier than usual,” Deke grunts as we drop his car with the valet and head inside.