Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  I headed to the information desk at the baggage claim area, trying hard not to imagine any of the horrors that could have befallen him in Bangladesh. I'd never received an answer to my email on Friday, which I'd chalked up to his getting ready to leave. Now, though, it seemed more sinister.

  I reached the information desk, and lined up behind two other frazzled-looking people. The first customer was dealt with (not to his satisfaction, judging by the look on his face), and the second moved up to take his place. A man came up beside me, and I moved forward slightly to establish my claim to being next in line.

  "Don't worry, sweetheart," he said, "I won't go in front of you."

  I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this, so I said nothing.

  The woman in front of me was finished and turned to leave, and the man moved right up and began to talk to the clerk. I was blazing. For a second, I was tongue-tied, and then inspiration struck.

  "Excuse me, sweetheart," I said, matching his intonation, "but I was next in line."

  The look on his face! It nearly made me laugh out loud, but I contained myself. With an angelic smile, I moved forward and the clerk, thankfully, turned her attention to me.

  Conscious of the man fuming behind me, I quickly explained the situation. I soon understood why the other customers had left the line looking less than pleased.

  "I cannot release the names of any passengers."

  "I'm not asking you to. All I want to know is--"

  "I cannot release the names of anyone who was on board."

  I paused, unsure of how to proceed against what seemed to be some sort of robot. "I understand that. I simply want to know if--"

  She began to repeat her line, but I kept talking over her. "--if my husband was on the flight. I already know his name, you just have to say 'yes' or 'no'."

  "I cannot release the--"

  "Oh, for the love of... Fine then."

  I turned on my heel, trying to ignore the snickers of 'sweetheart', and my own sweet heart nearly stopped beating. Right at the end of the large room, I saw a familiar face.

  Ian.

  Heading outside.

  I ran full-tilt across the arrival hall, dodging suitcases and slow-moving travelers like a football player running to make a touchdown. My elliptical training seemed to be paying off.

  "Ian!"

  He froze halfway through the door, and turned to face me as I ran up to him.

  "Hi," I said, feeling completely off balance. I'd been set to meet him at the arrival gate like a civilized person; this head-long dash was not part of my plan.

  "Hi," he said.

  "Why were you so much later than everyone else?"

  "My bags ended up on the wrong carousel."

  "Oh."

  We stared at each other for a moment. Neither of us moved. There'd been no hugs, no kisses, and barely any words. A huge luggage cart, hauling a tiny man behind it, broke the spell, and we moved to the side of the room.

  He looked so different! Somehow I hadn't expected that; it had only been a month, after all. But he was deeply tanned, and his hair was cut in a different way, and he'd built up more muscle.

  Gorgeous, actually.

  But somehow a stranger.

  "I like your shawl," he said, his voice sounding as awkward as I felt. "You did a beautiful job."

  "Thanks. You gave me the yarn, so thanks."

  "You're welcome," he said, and then we stood staring at each other again.

  I tried to cover my discomfort by reaching for one of his suitcases to help him out to the car. He reached for the same suitcase at the same time, and our hands touched.

  By the way he snapped his hand back, I knew he'd felt the same surge of electric connection that had ripped through me. I stared up at him, and he stared back. Neither of us moved. I couldn't think of what to say, what to do. Then, suddenly, I knew.

  I stepped past the suitcases so there was nothing between us, put my arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the mouth.

  He froze at first, and I felt an icy fear chill my heart. Then he came to life. His arms strong around my waist, his body warm and solid against me, our mouths reclaiming each other.

  The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but I felt like spring had come in the middle of a Canadian winter, thawing all the frozen places and making everything new again.

  I gazed deep into his eyes, feeling tears rising to my own, tears that to my amazement were matched in his. "I have missed you," he said, quietly and slowly, making every word count. "I love you."

  My tears spilled over. "I love you too. I'm so sorry."

  Ian shook his head. "I'm sorry too. I'm sorry for everything. It's all right. We're fine."

  Then he lowered his lips to mine again, and I felt his desire, and his love, pouring over me. I'd been so afraid of other thoughts, other memories, intruding, but all I could think about was Ian. Ian, and our fresh start.

  The kiss was magical.

  When it ended, he pulled me against him and hugged me so hard I could hardly breathe. We clung together for a long moment, and then he whispered, "Let's go home."

  "Okay," I whispered back.

  "So," he said, picking up the largest of his suitcases and waiting while I picked up the smaller one, "that shawl really is gorgeous. I did good buying that yarn."

  "You sure did," I said, as we set off together.

  "And short hair suits you. It looks great."

  "Thanks. Yours too," I said, looking over at him. Something dark on his arm caught my eye, and I reached over and pulled up his t-shirt sleeve to show a tattoo of dense black lines, bold and powerful, encircling his bicep, with a deep blue star embedded in the lines. I stopped walking and stared.

  "A few of the guys went out to get them last weekend," he said, putting a slight stress on 'guys'. "I was going to tell you, but I thought it might be fun for you to find it. I'd have got a polar bear but I didn't know if they could really do one and I didn't want a messed up one. I figured you like stars too, so why not?"

  Our eyes met and I shook my head in amazement. "It looks great on you, but I wouldn't have expected it. I never thought you were the tattoo type."

  He grinned, the Ian I'd fallen in love with. "I'm my own type."

  I considered flashing him my back, but decided against it. Plenty of time for that later. "You're my type," I said, and kissed him again, long and sweet and just as good as the other kisses.

  As we parted, he murmured, "I want you," then pulled me in again and kissed me so hungrily my body caught fire in an instant. I couldn't speak, but I returned his kiss with more than enough enthusiasm to make my feelings clear.

  He caught me by the shoulders and held me away from him. "Enough airport. Let's go home. I... miss Ninja."

  "Do you now," I said, smiling at him. "Then let's get you home to see him right away." I had a feeling poor Ninja would have to wait a while to get his daddy's full attention, and I didn't mind a bit.

  We walked on, a little faster, holding hands, and Ian said, "Hey, are you okay with that suitcase? It's heavy."

  "I'm fine," I said, noticing with surprise that I really was fine.

  Ian raised an eyebrow.

  "I've been going to the gym," I said almost apologetically. "I haven't lost any weight, but I think I'm stronger."

  "You look awesome, I can see muscles," Ian said, eyeing me dramatically.

  Then he laughed.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Oh, nothing... just maybe now the two of us will be strong enough to finally get the junk off the balcony."

  "Maybe," I agreed, stopping to kiss my wonderful husband yet again.

  GO SMALL OR GO HOME

  Chapter One

  "Yes, I'm serious, Joe. Turn around."

  "I can't ask you to do that." He glanced at the receptionist, at her desk beneath a framed poster of the 1974 Toronto Hogs hockey team, but her focus on her computer remained absolute.

  "You didn't ask, I offered. And your shoulders are right
up to your ears. Don't look a gift massage in the mouth."

  I probably didn't have much time before my interview, but I couldn't leave such a nice guy in such discomfort. Besides, I'd get to touch him again, like I'd wanted to since our introductory handshake. Something about him, not just his cuteness, called to me. He felt wounded. Fragile, despite his height and clearly muscular body.

  "Might make your interview easier if you were relaxed," I cajoled. "You do want to be the team's equipment manager, right? And I might be their massage therapist. So let me help you. Turn around."

  After another moment's hesitation, he did. I rested both hands on his shoulders to get him used to my touch then let my fingers explore. He was tighter than a size four bathing suit on a size fourteen woman, his muscles like solid bone beneath my hands, and though I tried to be gentle he caught his breath a few times.

  When he flinched, I said, "Sorry. Should I stop?"

  "No," he said at once. "It hurts but it's helping. You're good."

  Doubt skittered through me. I was good, and I knew it. So why was I considering leaving massage?

  Because yesterday I'd vowed to chase my artistic dreams. Somehow.

  Joe stiffened and on impulse I slipped one hand into his sweatshirt to work directly on the knot I'd found. As his tension eased, sadness flooded me and I had to blink back unexpected tears. I'd felt clients' newly released emotions before, but never like this. So much pain, so intense. What could have hurt him so deeply?

  He only let me touch his bare skin for a few seconds before he said, his voice rough and husky, "That feels better. Thanks."

  I drew my hands back though I longed to go on. "You're more than welcome. I hope it helped."

  He faced me, his hazel eyes still holding traces of the pain I'd felt from him. "It did." He cleared his throat. "You don't know how much."

  No, but I knew how much work he still needed. Before I could offer another session, the receptionist said, "Ms. Grayson, Mr. Filmore's ready for you."

  I looked at her. "He is? I didn't hear a phone ring or anything."

  She blinked twice. "Um, he emailed me."

  "Ah." I gathered my bag and jacket. The team's manager had probably told her to keep me waiting. Power trip.

  "Good luck," my impromptu client said, extending his hand to me.

  "You too." Our eyes met as we shook hands. The pain I'd seen was gone, but it had been real and I knew he still felt it. I didn't want to leave him.

  "It was nice to meet you." He released my hand. "Thank you again."

  "Ditto, and you're welcome again." We exchanged smiles and I headed toward the double doors hoping we'd both get hired and I'd get to work with him.

  *****

  "Ms. Grayson, could you start immediately?"

  At last, a relevant question. So far my interview had consisted of small talk and awkward silences. "My previous boss retired and shut down the clinic two weeks ago, so I'm free any time. And please, call me Tess."

  Filmore leaned forward, his hand resting on the Hogs team logo inlayed into his desk. His little finger, bearing an enormous gold ring emblazoned with '1974', stroked the cartoon pig's forehead. I didn't think he knew he was doing it.

  "All right, Tess, let me level with you."

  Instead of leveling, he stared at me, hard enough that I wanted to fidget but not quite enough to force me to. When I didn't look away he stared harder, which only made me more determined not to flinch.

  My eyeballs began to dry out, so I gave a slow deliberate blink. He did too, and dropped his head until his eyes nearly vanished beneath his thick grey eyebrows.

  After the longest few seconds of my life, he blinked again and gave one faint nod. Had I won? He did seem marginally friendlier when he went on. "We won the Beechman Cup in '74 and we haven't come close since."

  Beechman? From the reverence in his voice, I assumed the top team in the league won it. When Toronto's media described the Hogs these days, "top team" never came up.

  I must have appeared doubtful instead of clueless, because he held up a hand to stop the protest I wasn't making. "Sure, we make the playoffs nearly every year, and we even reached the final round in '95. Last year, we thought we'd win it all, but then..." He shook his head. "Well, gotta move on, right?"

  I didn't know what he was moving on from, but he clearly expected my agreement so I nodded.

  "This will be our year." He dropped each word like a little bomb, then glanced at his cell phone for at least the tenth time and said, "We need you to help us succeed."

  If I'd thought hockey mattered, the passion in his voice might have swayed me. But I didn't.

  I believed in sports. I'd picked up my childhood swimming again as a so-called 'masters swimmer' at twenty-six, although the only thing I'd mastered seemed to be failing to qualify for the championship meet held every December.

  I'd failed three times, but this year, my last chance before I turned thirty and moved into a new age bracket, I would succeed. The determination to get there kept me training day after day. Swimming, along with my art, had made me who I was.

  Sports were important and life-changing, no question. But professional sports? Overcharging, underperforming, and irrelevant.

  I chose not to share this opinion. "How? What exactly would I do to help?"

  His expression suggested I'd asked if he'd sing the national anthems naked at the next game. "I can't answer that now," he said eventually. "I can only say it'd be massage."

  "Good," I said, trying to ease his strange mood, "since I'm trained for it."

  He sighed. "I guess we should cover your training," he began, but his phone rang as he reached the last word. He lurched forward and answered it, relief spreading over his hockey-scarred face. "Took you long enough. So?"

  He listened for several seconds, drumming his fingers against the table. "Sure, but will it work?"

  More listening, then his eyebrows shot up. The drumming stopped. "Good enough. Will do."

  He snapped the phone closed. "Tess, thanks for your time. I'll be in touch."

  Startled, I scrambled to my feet and shook his offered hand.

  "Close the door on your way out, please."

  I walked through the unfortunately empty waiting room, and a calm certainty settled over me. This was a sign. I was meant to become a professional artist. If only I knew how.

  I'd been making my miniature scenes for nearly half my life, but hadn't considered selling them until Pam had sold her first painting a few years back. While I'd been immediately drawn to the idea, following my twin sister into a new career had seemed awkward at best and a potential battlefield at worst, so I'd put it aside. But on the weekend, on our twenty-ninth birthday, we'd battled anyhow, so why not pursue my dream?

  I'd spent the hours before my interview researching the art world. The same names came up repeatedly, but they wouldn't deal with artists without referrals or gallery experience, and I didn't have either and didn't know how to get them.

  I tried to focus on finding a solution but my mind kept wandering to Joe. I hadn't even asked his full name, so I couldn't find him to massage him again. He'd been so nice, and in so much pain. If he became the equipment manager, maybe whoever got the massage therapist job would take good care of him. I hoped so.

  *****

  Once I got home, I opened the blinds to let the late-autumn sun illuminate my twelfth-floor apartment then settled down at my work table. Time with my art never failed to soothe me. Occasionally it gave me a headache, but always joy as well.

  Each miniature started with a solid base, usually plywood, about the size of my palm, to which I attached tiny three-dimensional figures and objects. I spent most of my time looking through a magnifying glass as I painted and molded clay and shaped fabric to match the image in my mind.

  Finding the right form for the image of my current project had been a challenge. A week ago, I'd dreamed about a woman trapped in a pit while people gawked down at her, and I'd been working on it ever sinc
e.

  Making the base several inches thick so I'd have somewhere to dig the pit was the obvious answer, so I'd rejected it. Instead, I'd tried many different ways before hitting on a vortex dragging the woman down to her doom. The concept bore only a faint resemblance to my dream, but if a piece felt right, it was right. And this felt right.

  Magnifying glass in hand, I was painting the base when I thought of having objects, everything the woman wanted and needed, pulled down with her. I jotted the idea on my notepad and returned to work.

  When the phone beside me rang, my fingers tingled at the sight of 'Toronto Hogs' on the call display. I hadn't expected Filmore to call so soon.

  "Congratulations, you've got the job."

  Chapter Two

  "Do you accept?"

  "I don't know what it involves."

  "I'll give you the details after you've committed."

  "How can I take a job I know nothing about?"

  Filmore grunted. "I can't tell you everything, but of course you know the situation with Forrest Williams."

  "I don't," I said as he started to go on.

  "You don't? How could you not?" He sounded like I'd admitted to not knowing ice was cold. "He's the best forward in the league. At least he could be."

  "I told you I don't follow hockey."

  But I was starting to remember the incessant news coverage. Put up for trade by his old team earlier in the year, Forrest had been all anyone who cared about hockey could discuss. Team after team had offered him more money than I'd make in ten lifetimes, and he'd chosen Toronto.

  "He played well at training camp in September," Filmore said. "Although... no, he did play well. Decently, anyhow. Considering. But he was hurt the last day of camp and he's not been himself since. He's missed nearly a month of games now and we need him healthy. You'll be Forrest's full-time therapist."

  'Decently'. 'Hurt'. 'Not himself'. Could the man be any vaguer? "What's wrong with him?"

  "Now, that I can't tell you until you've agreed," he said, his voice so solid I knew he wouldn't budge. "But I'm told massage will help. You can't speak to the media, or take on any other patients without my permission, and you must be available whenever he needs you. Are you in?"