Taming Beckett: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (The Playmakers Series Hockey Romances Book 1)

by G. K. Brady

  “Why do you have to fight them off?” She rearranged the shawl, and it slid off her shoulders. “I should wear a calico dress with an apron and bonnet? Why am I different from your other women? Not that I’m one of your women.”

  “Because you’re you!” he bellowed.

  Andie smiled broadly and patted his cheek. “That’s so sweet, Beck, whatever it means. Can we go now? I’m hungry—and thirsty.”

  She pivoted toward the door. Beckett threw his hands up and stomped after her. When they stepped into the hallway, he pulled the wrap from her shoulders and rearranged it like a lobster bib. She looked at him in astonishment, but he ignored her.

  “Beckett, you’re acting rather peculiar.”

  “For such a smart woman, you can be pretty fumbling clueless, you know that?” He grabbed her bare arm, and his fingers tingled. An impulse to caress every inch of her silky skin burgeoned inside of him. If she were his, he could run his fingertips over it, slide them under …

  He shook off the thought, and now a string of curse words danced through his brain. One minute, he averted his eyes from the gorgeous woman on his arm and stole peeks the next, like a moony sixth-grader darting glances at the object of his desire a row ahead of him in class. Damn! Next he’d be throwing spitballs at her.

  They entered the ballroom decorated in gold and silver balloons and all types of spangles, landing amid a throng of decked-out people. The women glittered, and though Andie wore no jewelry except a pair of dangly earrings, she outshone them all. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her. And he wasn’t the only one. Men were giving her the once over, which made him want to step in front of her and growl at them all.

  On one hand, he wanted to fucking pound his chest because he had the most exquisite woman in the whole damn place, bar none. On the other hand, every dickhead was undressing her with his eyes. On the third hand, she wasn’t his, but they didn’t have to know that. On the fourth hand, upholding his scout’s promise would be torture.

  He stuck close to her as they glad-handed their way around the room, introducing her simply as Paige. If they believed she was his wife, it was fine by him.

  Beckett pulled her aside, leaning down to her ear. “See that short, stocky guy over there?”

  Andie discreetly flicked her gaze to four huddled men. “The pasty-looking man? The one with more salt than pepper in his hair?”

  “That ‘pasty-looking’ man says, ‘Jump,’ and the entire business world says, ‘How high?’ Ever heard of Martin Hammacher?”

  “The CEO of Goldworth Industries?”

  “Yep. He’s interested in acquiring DeFunked.”

  Andie looked incredulous. “Wait. Goldworth is courting you?”

  “It’s why we’re at this shindig, dancing the schmoozer’s two-step. And here comes Hammacher now.”

  Hammacher wound his way toward them, his hand extended in greeting. As he and Beckett shook, Hammacher said, “Mr. Miller! So glad you could join us. And this lovely lady must be …”

  Beckett smiled down at Andie and gave her a possessive squeeze. “This is Paige. Paige, Martin Hammacher.”

  Andie’s light green eyes lit, and she held out her hand. “Mr. Hammacher, a genuine pleasure to meet one of my heroes. Your book on goal-setting is the textbook I’ve built my business on. And I’ve heard so many nice things about you from Beckett.”

  Beckett would hug her later. She was good.

  Hammacher picked up her hand and kissed it, then held it captive in his. Without taking his eyes from Andie, he said, “Miller, I congratulate you on your choice of companions. This one has beauty and brains in spades.”

  Damn straight. When Hammacher was out of earshot, Beckett grumbled, “What a smoothie.”

  “Jealous he might out-smooth you, Beck?”

  “Don’t let the charm fool you. He’s a total prick. And whatever you do, don’t let the old goat corner you alone. If he does, tell him I have a quick temper and a wicked right.”

  “So if he buys you out, will you and Joe make a lot of money?” Her expression was peculiar, almost one of concern.

  “Oh yeah. And I’ll pay back your eighty grand with interest—no arguing—and maybe shop for some hockey collectibles.” He grinned.

  “And your cars?”

  He shrugged. “I had a 1960 Corvette in two-tone Ultra Blue Metallic & Galaxy Silver. I’d love to have it back.”

  She seemed not to register the Corvette. “And your lifestyle?” This she said rather sadly.

  He stared at her while he tried to unravel her comments. “Uh …”

  She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A beat later, she said, “I have to find the ladies’ room,” and headed away from him, her dark copper hair glossy in the light. He feasted his eyes on the sight of her swaying hips and shapely calves.

  A man accosted her, and Beckett tensed. Glancing over her shoulder at Beckett, she said something to the man, and he followed her gaze. His eyes widened. Beckett resisted the urge to flip him off; instead, he folded his arms over his chest, feeling every bit the rooster. Not with my girl, asshole. The man gave him a nervous smile and withdrew.

  Shit! I am in so much fucking trouble tonight.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Paige tottered to the ladies’ room on her open-toed navy stilettos. Who invented these anyway? They must have been hatched as some medieval torture device.

  Beckett’s talk of a big payout wasn’t sitting well, and she pushed it to the back wall of her mind. I’ll worry about it later. What she couldn’t ignore was his unexpected, beyond-attentive behavior; it had her reeling. She liked it. She didn’t like it. How many drinks had he had? How many had she had? Maybe she was seeing things through a velvety, caramel-colored glass and either imagined the signals he was sending or misinterpreted them. She hadn’t spotted him sizing up other women, and there were plenty of beauties to be sized up. But Beckett was a pro; it was possible he’d surreptitiously set up dozens of rendezvous for later on, and she was clueless. She didn’t care; she was enjoying all the admiring looks she got in spite of Beckett’s hulking presence. And she didn’t mind the ones she got from him either.

  The Tadashi was so worth it. Even these ankle-breakers were worth it. Yep, you are one sexy chica tonight.

  When she re-entered the fray, she spotted Beckett’s tall, broad frame across the ballroom. As she drew closer, she stopped to ogle him. His profile was to her, and he stood at the bar. God, he was devastating! He could have worn oil-stained overalls and still looked good. But tonight he sported a black Armani dinner jacket and vest that fit him like a glove, white shirt, and dark patterned bowtie. Beckett wore refinement well. His short brown hair was brushed off of his face, and a five-o’clock shadow added ruggedness to his extraordinary looks. He’d been turning heads all night.

  He took a step back, and that’s when Paige saw a striking young woman wearing a brilliant smile as she fixed adoring eyes on him. She was his kind of woman: tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and olive-skinned. Paige’s heart dropped.

  Why do I care?

  She inched closer and caught the woman saying, “I’m a big fan. I used to watch you play hockey. On TV, I mean.” She tossed her long hair back. It added sultriness to her sensual features.

  “Really? You hardly look old enough.” Paige couldn’t see Beckett’s expression, but she heard his usual charm in the inflection.

  The woman let out a deep, delicious laugh. “Well, my parents were fans when we lived in LA, so we watched lots of games. You were always my favorite. Still are.” She placed her hand on his forearm. “You’re wonderful.”

  A bartender handed Beckett two drinks, and Paige’s heart dropped a little further. Then Beckett nodded to the woman. “Happy New Year.” He turned away.

  “Wait!” she called. “Are you here by yourself?”

  Slowly, he pivoted back. “No. But you probably already knew that, or you wouldn’t have waited until I was alone at the bar.” The charm was still there, but it was tinged w
ith irritation.

  The woman shifted her posture. “Well, what I meant was … is she someone special? I thought … Would you like to get together sometime?” She reached into her beaded clutch and pulled out a card.

  Paige could hear him sigh from where she stood despite the racket. “The lady I’m with is my longtime girlfriend—I’m keeping it that way.”

  The girl looked pained.

  He turned away and began scanning the crowd. His eyes landed on Paige, and his face lit up. Her heart leapt back into its proper place—maybe even a few inches higher.

  “There you are!” He strode to her, surprising her when he pecked her cheek, and handed her a drink. “This is for you.”

  He steered her to a far corner and leaned down to her ear. His Old Spice, or whatever it was, wafted over her, and she checked the urge to pull in a deep breath.

  “What did you hear, pixie?”

  “Enough.” She clinked his glass. “Congrats, Beckett. You just turned down a proposition for the first time.”

  “Not the first time. How long were you standing there?”

  “Not long. Why? What did I miss?”

  “Nothing. C’mon. I want to introduce you to a few people.”

  An invisible tether attached her to Beckett, as though she were an astronaut going for a spacewalk and he was the capsule. And it kept her anchored to him for the rest of the evening, but somehow she didn’t mind. She wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or something else at work, but her body buzzed with an insistent, sensual thrumming.

  CHAPTER 18

  Dance with Me

  Beckett’s patience was flagging, but it was almost midnight, and by God, he would get his New Year’s kiss. Where had Andie’s provocative, lace-wrapped body gone? He glanced toward the dance floor, and there she was: the bloom in the middle of all the buzzing bees, and her petite frame was just about swallowed up. Jesus! He’d been rescuing her all evening from perverted old goats and horny young ones. She’d been eye-fucked so many times he wouldn’t have been surprised if she wound up pregnant. It was good he was there. She could thank him later.

  Beckett put his big body between her and Hammacher, just short of hip-checking the old fart off the dance floor. Billionaire or not, to hell with him. “It’s nearly midnight, Martin, and I saw your wife looking for you,” Beckett lied. Hammacher thanked him and hurried away.

  Andie tugged Beckett’s coat sleeve and crooked a finger at him, a devilish, dimpled smile on her beautiful face. “Dance with me, Beck.”

  Her hair had worked itself loose on one side, and it fell over her eye. She brushed it back, pulling his gaze to her throat, her chin, her chest. And all that lace, all that skin, and the exposed swell of her breasts. The heavens aligned: a slow song came on.

  Hell yes!

  She pulled him to her and threw her arms around his neck, her body rocking. Beckett stifled a groan. Damn, she felt good; she fit him perfectly. Her silky hair brushed his cheek, and her fragrance filled his head. Flowers, vanilla, soap. Somewhere in the back of his head, an annoying little voice insisted this was a lousy idea.

  “Andie? Let’s get you some water.”

  “Why?” She pulled back, her eyes sultry as hell as she stared at his mouth. “Beckett, you are one gorgeous man, you know that?”

  Shit! He’d heard it plenty of times, but hearing her say it did funny things to him, like turn him rock-hard quicker than a referee could blow a whistle.

  She wriggled out of his grasp and turned her back to him, mesmerizing him with the sensual swivel of her hips, the swaying of her graceful arms above her head, and the way every gorgeous contour on her body moved in the dress clinging to her like a second skin. For a beat, he was jealous of that dress. He grasped her hips, trying to stop them from doing what they were doing; they were driving him out of his fucking mind. It took every scrap of restraint to keep from hauling her back to their room—she wasn’t going to stop him. Hell of a time for a conscience.

  Backing into him, she wiggled her ass against his crotch, making him strain against his fly, making him ache. His blood blazed. She spun and pulled his head down to hers, and he let her. Her plump lips curved up and skimmed his, her warm, delicious bourbon breath caressing his mouth. “Is it midnight yet?”

  Her lips teased him, feathering over his while she fixed half-lidded, molten eyes on his. The seduction was spellbinding. Paralyzing. This was new for him. Stuck where he stood, he was poised to scatter willpower to the ceiling and let it fall with the rest of the New Year’s Eve debris. In the background, voices counted down. “Three, two, one!”

  As blowers and poppers and horns exploded, his mouth descended on hers.

  Her full lips parted for him like the soft petals of a flower, and he took her mouth gently, tasting first her bottom lip then her top. She slid her hands up his chest, over his shoulders. The tip of her tongue touched his, luring him in. In a heart-pounding second, the burners ignited, and his tongue plunged in, eager to explore and stake its claim. The taste of her made him dizzy. He wanted to plunder her mouth, to kiss her lips swollen, to take more. To take it all.

  One hand holding the back of her head, the other ran over her small waist, her hip, and cupped a handful of her bottom. He snugged her close. Her grip tightened, and she let out a breathy moan as she rocked slowly against him, nearly undoing him. People were hooting and screaming all around them while confetti and streamers rained down, but it was as though they were in another room, another world.

  She uncoupled her mouth from his and kissed his jaw hungrily, moving down his neck, sucking, running the tip of her tongue against his skin. God, he wanted that mouth everywhere. The only thing he wanted more was her naked body under his. He trailed open-mouthed kisses over her throat, flicking his tongue over her skin, tasting her, his rapid inhales echoing hers. Digging her fingers into his shoulders, tugging his hair, she breathed his name.

  “Beckett.”

  It sounded like a plea, and he froze. Her words tumbled through his head. Not before the divorce is final. I couldn’t stand the guilt.

  Those words battled with his: I want her. Here. Now. Mine.

  Where he found a last meager thread of self-control, he had little idea. But he snatched at it, reluctantly retracting his mouth from her velvety skin. He watched her face as she opened her eyes. Was that puzzlement shimmering there? Hurt?

  He held her to him to avoid looking at her; he would be lost if he did. “I’m going to take you back to the room so you can sleep this off, okay?” he whispered. She stiffened, then gave the barest of nods against his chest.

  She tottered when he untangled his limbs from hers, so he held her up as they wove their way back to the suite. Inside, he eased her into an armchair and pulled confetti from her hair, fighting the urge to weave his fingers in the silky strands.

  “Andie, will you be all right by yourself for a while?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Ah, I was invited to join Hammacher’s high rollers for poker and cigars.”

  Her baffled expression hardened into a glare. “Yeah, sure,” she grumbled.

  He placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Happy New Year, Andie.” He felt her eyes following him, and he paused at the door for one long, last look before snapping it closed and sprinting to the stairs, getting as far away from her as he could.

  .~ * * * ~.

  Paige stared at the door. What. The. Hell?

  She’d been floating in a lovely, fuzzy bubble where she’d been smoldering with anticipation, but Beckett’s flight had jettisoned her and landed her ass-first on granite. A shocking landing, to be sure.

  “Why bother asking for permission? Jerk! Stay out the whole damn night,” she barked at nobody. She reminded herself of an old fishwife.

  She had no claim on him; no one had a claim on Beckett Miller. And she’d told him she’d allow no claim on her either. But that was before he’d kissed her senseless. Good Lord, every nerve still quivered and tingled. It was a wonde
r her legs hadn’t melted like microwaved butter. He’d rendered her a brainless, spineless mass with lips. She’d never been kissed like that: as if he were sailing away on a whaling expedition for three years; as if he would never kiss another woman again in his life; as if every part of him wanted every part of her and would die if he didn’t have her. Was that his everyday kiss? Did he rock everyone’s world that way? Obviously, she hadn’t had the same effect on him as he’d had on her. The thought he’d left her side to kiss someone else, that he was rushing to someone else’s arms, nearly gutted her.

  “He’s doing you a favor,” her muzzy inner voice chided.

  With an enormous exhale, she marched to her bedroom, yanked out her silky slip and long johns, and surveyed each before resigning herself to waffle-weave. She changed and crawled between the sheets. She drummed her fingers on her tummy. And got up to scrub her face. She texted Gwenn a Happy New Year wish. Back under the covers, she jumped up again and brushed her teeth. Then again to pull on socks. She eyeballed the slip, dismissing it once more. Minutes later, she clambered out of bed to pee. And checked her phone.

  Where is he?

  Who gives a flying fig!

  She piled and punched pillows, snapped on her bedside lamp, and stared at the luxurious canopy above her head. She turned on her e-reader and scanned a paragraph, three paragraphs, a page. What had she just read? What book was she even reading? The e-reader was tossed aside in favor of the remote, but her channel surfing was futile. Nothing distracted her.

  For what seemed the entire night—but wasn’t a fourth as long, as verified by her frequent peeks at her phone—she huffed and puffed and rolled around in bed. No position was comfortable for longer than two minutes. When she heard the main door open, she threw off the covers, shoved her arms in a hotel robe, and jolted through her door. Bowtie undone and hanging askew, vest unbuttoned, jacket folded over his arm, Beckett stared at her wide-eyed.