WILD ZONE, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel

by Skye Jordan

She turned sideways, leaned one elbow on the railing, and looked at Matt again. “Okay, then, I guess we’re going to get to know each other really well, because I’m not going anywhere until my sister checks her phone, and with her running all over the party like a madwoman, that could take some time. I’m Olivia. What’s your name?”

  That was his opening.

  Tate put his glass on a side table and waited for foot traffic to clear, then walked out onto the metal platform. “Hey, Matt.”

  “Hey, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Matt,” Olivia said with a nod and a contemplative scan of Matt’s face. “It fits. You look like a Matthew.”

  Tate stepped toward her and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Tate.”

  Her gaze turned on him, along with a warm, authentic smile. She took his hand, her hold firm. “Olivia.”

  Matt cast an uncertain gaze between them. “She doesn’t have an invitation, sir.”

  “So I heard.” Tate settled his gaze squarely on Olivia again, and she held it with the kind of open, no-nonsense confidence Tate had never seen in a woman before. She also added a feisty little what-are-you-gonna-do-about-it umph to her grin, and Tate couldn’t keep from smiling back.

  Up close, everything about her was striking. Her blonde hair was shiny, her skin smooth and radiant, her eyes clear, sky blue. She wore light makeup and no jewelry. And she appeared as unimpressed by Tate as she’d been by Jake.

  He liked that.

  He released her hand. “What’s your last name, Olivia?”

  She cocked her head and queried with a puzzled “Why?”

  “So I can confirm your relationship to the event planner.”

  “Essex,” she offered without hesitation.

  She was, indeed, part of the family. He nodded and smiled at Matt. “Olivia will be my plus one tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Tate met her eyes again and extended a bent elbow for her, she looked a little stunned. “Thank you.”

  She slipped her hand around his biceps, telling Tate, “Matt is an excellent security guard. He needs a raise.”

  Tate laughed. And suddenly, looking down into this stranger’s beautiful blue eyes, he wasn’t feeling so shitty about the night anymore.

  He nodded confirmation at Matt. “I’ll talk to your dad.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Matt’s chest puffed out a little with pride.

  “He’s just darling.” She shook her head and walked inside with Tate. “What is he? Sixteen—” She stopped, put her free hand to her chest, and pulled in a breath. “Oh, ce est magnifique.”

  Her words came out soft, and when Tate turned narrowed eyes on her, still trying to figure out what she’d said, he found her taking in the space with awe.

  “Was that…French?” he asked.

  “Oh my. My, my, my.” She released Tate’s arm and turned in slow circles, her gaze taking in everything floor to ceiling. Everything except the people, which was novel when the here were really the main attraction. And while she took in the warehouse, murmuring to herself in a mix of English and what he was sure now had to be French, Tate took in his fill of her.

  She wore some exotic scent of flowers and musk that made his mouth water. Her voice caressed his ears while her body-hugging silver dress winked in the dim light. And for the first time in way too long, Tate’s body yearned long after the initial flutter of attraction.

  “They’ve done such an amazing job.”

  Her words dragged his gaze up her long legs, over her great ass, her flat belly, her full breasts, her sleek neck and rested on her profile. On her little nose. Her big eyes. Her plump lips. Slid over the fall of light hair. Hair that hung long and loose to her shoulders, mostly straight but with a little fullness, a little body. The kind of hair Tate could sink his hands into and find traction.

  Oh yeah. The whiskey was working. Because that thought led his mind down an extremely dirty path that included her head between his spread legs, his hands tangled in her hair…

  Thick heat gathered in his pelvis. He tore his gaze away from her face and cleared his throat. “So, do you see your sister?”

  She scanned the crowd. “No…but there are a lot of people here.” She sighed, turned to face him with a crooked little smile, and shrugged. “I’ll find her eventually. She and my mom will be here until the very end, and I’m sure I’ll be here helping them clean up. What’s with the baby security guard at the door? There can’t be anyone really important here, or you’d have armed guards and Secret Service. A celebrity would have bodyguards.”

  Tate grinned. “Baby is a second degree black belt in tae kwon do.”

  Her pretty face dropped in surprise. “Duly impressed. I wish I’d known. I would have given him a harder time. People like that make life hell for the rest of us.”

  That made Tate laugh.

  “It’s true,” she complained with a half chuckle, pushing at his chest. “Don’t laugh at me. My sense of humor is on Paris time, which means it’s sound asleep.”

  He caught her wrist and held it gently. He’d forgotten how soft a woman’s skin could be. “I bet a really good glass of French wine would make up for the jet lag.”

  Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and her smile burned a little hotter. “A little French anything cures jet lag.”

  She pulled back from his grip, flattening her palm against his, then threading their fingers. The move, while simple and harmless, struck Tate as intensely intimate.

  “You’re a nice surprise in my day, Tate.”

  That zinged through him, and vibrations radiated over his ribs. “Same here.”

  With her hand in his, they wandered toward the bar, and Tate couldn’t help but focus on how odd it felt to have a woman’s hand in his again. Odd yet good. So good. Which made Tate’s mind wander to how good the rest of her would feel against the rest of him. The guys were right. He really needed some of that.

  At the bar, the young server looked at Tate. “Whiskey, sir?”

  “Please, and a glass of the Château Rayas, ninety-five, please.”

  Olivia lifted her brows. “That doesn’t pour from just any random spout.” Then she glanced around again, only this time at the people. “Should I recognize anyone?”

  Tate rested one butt cheek against a stool, but he didn’t move far. She hadn’t taken her hand out of his, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Only if you like hockey.”

  “I used to love hockey,” she said, her eyes coming back to his with a spark of excitement. But in the next second, something clicked and sadness filtered in, snuffing the spark. “In high school,” she added, less enthusiastic. “My dad and I used to watch it. Then I moved overseas and, well…I got busy.”

  The bartender returned with his whiskey, a wineglass, and the bottle.

  Olivia made a negligent gesture toward the bar. “Go ahead and pour. I don’t need all that pretentious bull.”

  The young bartender tried to stifle a grin.

  Olivia snuck a look at Tate. “Sorry if that offends you. But seriously, if a bottle of wine costs eight hundred dollars, you shouldn’t have to do a sniff and taste test to make sure it’s good.”

  The bartender choked on a laugh.

  Olivia lifted her hands. “Am I right?”

  Tate chuckled and shook his head. She was so fresh. Down-to-earth. Unpretentious. Too many women who gravitated toward professional sports players did it for the money, the status, the fame. Lisa had. A lot of the players’ exes or current dates had. And they couldn’t get enough of that bullshit.

  “I don’t know anything about wine,” Tate admitted. “So to me, it sounds right.”

  “You do so. You just ordered the Château Rayas with total confidence.”

  “We have friends here tonight who love this wine, so I knew there would be a couple of bottles tucked away especially for them. I just lucked out that you like French.”

  She laughed. And man, she was…mesmerizing. She was the kind of person who lit up from the inside when s
he laughed. Her eyes sparkled, her skin glowed. Tate couldn’t look away. She had an intangible quality to her that intrigued him to distraction. A spirit that was open and free and light. She lifted Tate. Let him see above those dark borders he’d been living inside.

  “No worries,” she murmured, lifting her free hand to his chest and hooking her index finger into the space between the buttons on his shirt, stroking button to button. “I love everything French.”

  Tate wanted to French every inch of her. “So you just came in from Paris?”

  She nodded.

  “Were you there on vacation?”

  “No, I live there.”

  His brows shot up. “Really.” Just his fucking luck. The first woman who’d interested him since his bitch of an ex-wife screwed him over, and she lived overseas. His excitement dimmed. “How long have you lived there?”

  “Um…” Her eyes rolled upward. “Sort of off and on for years. I move around a lot.”

  “Why?”

  “I just love traveling, experiencing different cultures, meeting different people. Life is short, you know? Gotta live all your adventures while you can.”

  There was a story there. One he’d like to know, but not one he wanted to get into now. Or here. “What are you doing in town?”

  “I came to visit my mom and sister for a couple of weeks.”

  Couple of weeks. Tate’s heart sank.

  “So, what is this?” she asked, glancing around the space. “It’s pretty fancy for a bunch of hockey players.”

  He followed her gaze, pleased to find his teammates too busy chatting with others to be watching him. He didn’t need to catch any more shit about his love life than he already had. “Engagement party for one of the guys.”

  “Cool. Are you one of those guys?”

  “I am.”

  She smiled. “Like your job?”

  “Love it.”

  She nodded. “That’s good. I believe in loving everything you do. Otherwise, it’s not worth doing.”

  Oh yeah. He really liked her outlook. “What do you do back in Paris?”

  “I work at a restaurant…” Something buzzed on the bar top. Olivia’s gaze cut that direction and her hand drifted from his shirt to pick up her phone. “Sorry, it’s Quinn.”

  Without letting go of Tate’s hand, she answered. “Hey, I’m here, I’m—” She stopped abruptly. Her brows pulled together in a cute little scowl. “Wait, but you invited—” She pulled her hand from his and pressed it to her forehead. “I thought…”

  Tate’s hand felt cold. And the heat she’d created in his body started to drain as if it knew he’d lost his chance with her. He might have met her only fifteen minutes ago, but Tate already knew she was very different from the puck bunnies that swarmed the team. She was the kind of woman Tate had wanted to meet since he’d divorced Lisa.

  “Are you serious?” she said into the phone with the first hint of frustration in her voice. “I just got off a plane, Quinn— No, I’m at the bar, talking to— Quinn— Quinn?”

  She pulled the phone from her ear and frowned at it, growling. Turning off the screen, she settled a frustrated but apologetic gaze on Tate. “I’m sorry. My sister…” She exhaled hard, and a slice of anger cut across her face before it melted away into annoyance again. But her shoulders sank, and the light in her eyes had burned out. “Quinn, evidently, didn’t invite me to enjoy the party. She invited me to work the party. And the only reason I’m not going to strangle her is because she’s never traveled and she doesn’t understand time changes and jet lag.”

  Tate instinctively reached for her hand to pull her closer, curving the other arm around her waist. And Olivia acted as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if being touched by a stranger didn’t alarm her in the least. As if leaning into him like they were already lovers was second nature. Which only made Tate want to seal that deal…like…now.

  “Can I help?” he asked. “Is there something I can do to help you get your job done quicker so you can get back to me quicker?”

  She stroked his cheek and smiled. “I could tell you were going to be one of those guys as soon as I met you.”

  He braced for the nice-guy brush-off. “What kind?”

  Her light eyes slipped down his face and rested on his mouth. “The kind I’d want to get to know a lot better.”

  The sexual innuendo in her tone seared a path through his belly and straight between his legs.

  “I’d like that too.” Tate couldn’t quite believe the words had come out of his mouth.

  Olivia swayed closer, pressed a hand to his chest, and looked up at him with those big blue eyes. “Maybe later, if you’re still here when I’m done…” She gave a little shrug. “Have a great night, Tate. And thanks for getting me in. Quinn sounds like she’s going to need a hand.” She patted his chest and grinned a little wider. “Little sister to the rescue.”

  Then she pushed up on her toes, skimmed her fingers across his jaw, murmured something in French, and kissed him. Just a soft press of her lips.

  Then she glanced around. “Can you point me toward the kitchen?”

  Tate was still dazed when he lifted his hand toward the doors leading to the kitchen. Then watched her walk away, her path to her sister followed by dozens of male gazes. She responded to greetings but didn’t seek out attention.

  And when she pushed open one swinging door, she paused and looked back. When her gaze found Tate’s, it held, and she smiled. The moment hung there a moment while Tate’s stomach flipped. Oh yeah, there was definitely something special about her.

  “Who’s that?”

  The familiar voice dragged Tate’s gaze around just as Olivia disappeared into the kitchen, and Tate turned to face Beckett. He was holding a beer and wearing a frown.

  “The sister of your event coordinator. She came to help out,” he said to make the explanation easier.

  “If she looks anything like Quinn, I hope you asked her out.”

  “I haven’t met Quinn yet. I arranged the event with Teresa. And I’m going to meet up with Olivia when she’s done here to see if she wants to go out. But she just got into town, so she may not be up for it. Especially not after working tonight.”

  “That sucks. I was hoping she’d be back to hang on you some more.”

  “Why?”

  Beckett made a face. “Because Lisa just walked in.”

  Everything inside Tate went cold and hard. “What?” He knew neither Beckett nor Eden would invite her, so he asked, “How?”

  “She’s with Martin Kessler,” Beckett said. “My dad invited Kessler. I had no idea—”

  “Fuck.” He sighed. “I know, Beck. I know.”

  Lisa was a publicist. When Tate met Lisa, her business had been small. She’d been digging for clients, struggling to grow her one-person company. Hooking up with Tate had changed all that. Looking back, he had a crystal clear view of Lisa’s grand plan and how expertly she’d executed it, but at the time, he’d believed they’d wanted the same things—marriage, kids, a family, a future together. But all she’d wanted was Tate’s contacts to build her business. When that had only taken her half the way, she’d slept her way to the finish.

  Now, three years later, she had a thriving multi million-dollar company handling publicity for the majority of DC’s biggest names in sports, politics, real estate and business. Which meant Tate and Lisa would continue to run into each other. It had already happened twice since their divorce. Once at a charity event, once at a sponsor event. And each time she’d been with a different man.

  “Thanks for the heads up,” he told Beckett.

  His friend was pulled into a conversation nearby. When he stepped aside, Tate had a perfect view of Lisa and Kessler. She looked as amazing as she always did, trim, coiffed, jeweled, her plastic smile in place. Tate’s guts churned with emotions—anger, bitterness, hurt, betrayal. And here she was with man number three—or thirty for all Tate knew—while he was so scarred over what she’d don
e, he couldn’t even date.

  Olivia’s smile flashed in Tate’s head. “Maybe later, if you’re still here when I’m done…”

  The stark difference between the emotions Olivia elicited and the emotions Lisa elicited struck Tate, and he made a decision right then and there: he was ready to move on the way Lisa had.

  He may never have been a one-night-stand kind of guy, may have never had a fling, but if Olivia wanted him, he sure as hell wasn’t going to walk away tonight. Because over the last year, he hadn’t found anyone he’d wanted to move on with more than Olivia.

  2

  Olivia Essex wasn’t short on men in her life. From the moment she’d moved overseas, they’d come easily. Being blonde and American had always been an attractive novelty. Over the last decade, she hadn’t just learned a lot about men, she’d become a connoisseur. She truly did love them and all their eccentricities.

  And as she smiled at Tate before letting the swinging door close behind her, she hoped the smokin’ hot American was still here when she finished putting out Quinn’s fire. Olivia was a sucker for a wounded soul, and Tate Donovan was one big muscled mass of darkly charismatic, brooding man. She wanted to take him to bed and bring him so much joy it took him months to remember what—or who—caused him the kind of pain she saw in those pretty chocolate eyes.

  Her fingertips finally brushed the edge of the door and it slipped from her grasp, cutting off her view of one of the best looking men she’d ever met. And she’d met more than her fare share. From all over the world.

  Olivia smiled, sighed and laid a hand over her heart. Turning she floated deeper into the large space much like the one she’d come from, just not dolled up for guests. Cement floor, twenty-foot open-beamed metal ceilings… Confusion filtered in. This wasn’t a kitchen. It looked more like a storage—

  A moan rippled through the air, chilling Olivia’s spine and stopping her feet. A tortured, agonized moan followed by a choked sob. Then a round of insistent hushes while the moan was muffled.

  What the…?

  Olivia’s mind darted back to Quinn’s panic-edged voice over the phone, something Olivia had chalked up to tightly-strung Quinn being tightly-strung Quinn. Now, urgency drove her forward. “Quinn? Mom?”