See Jane Score (3 page)

“That's understandable given your history, I suppose.” She'd clearly read up on him.

“What history?” He wondered if she'd read that piece-of-shit book
The Bad Boys of Hockey,
which had devoted five chapters to him, complete with pictures. About half of what the author claimed in that book was pure gossip and absolute fabrication. And the only reason Luc hadn't sued was because he didn't want the added media attention.

“Your history with the press.” She took a drink of her coffee and shrugged. “The ubiquitous coverage of your problems with drugs and women.”

Yep, she'd read it. And who the hell used words like
ubiquitous
? Reporters, that's who. “For the record, I've never had problems with women. Ubiquitous or otherwise. You should know better than to believe everything you read.”

At least not anything criminal. And his addiction to painkillers was in the past. Where he intended for it to stay.

He ran his gaze from her slicked-back hair, across the flawless skin of her face, and down the rest of her wrapped up in that awful coat. Maybe if she loosened up her hair she wouldn't look like such a tight ass. “I've read your column in the paper,” he said and glanced up into her green eyes. “You're the single girl who bitches about commitment and can't find a man.” Her dark brows slashed lower and her gaze turned hard. “Meeting you, I can see your problem.” He'd hit a nerve. Good. Maybe she'd stay away from him.

“Are you still clean and sober?” she asked.

He figured if he didn't answer, she'd make up something. They always did. “Absolutely.”

“Really?” Her lowered brows rose in perfect arches as if she didn't really believe him.

He took a step closer. “Want me to piss in your cup, sweetheart?” he asked the hard-eyed, uptight, probably-hadn't-had-sex-in-five-years woman in front of him.

“No, thanks, I take my coffee black.”

He might have taken a moment to appreciate her comeback if she wasn't a reporter and if it didn't feel as if she were being forced on him, like it or not. “If you change your mind about that, let me know. And don't think that Duffy shoving you down the guys' throats is going to make your job easy.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning whatever you think it means,” he said and walked away.

He walked the short distance to the parking garage and found his gray Ducati leaning on its stand next to the handicapped slot. The color of the motorcycle perfectly matched the thick clouds hanging over the city and the gloomy garage. He strapped his duffel on the back of the Duke and straddled the black seat. With the heel of his boot, he kicked up the stand and fired the twin-cylinder engine. He didn't spare Ms. Alcott another thought as he sped from the parking lot, the muffled bark of the engine trailing behind him. He made his way past Tini Bigs bar and up Broad to Second Avenue, and within a few short blocks he pulled into the common garage of his condominium complex and parked the motorcycle next to his Land Cruiser.

Luc hooked two fingers beneath the cuff of his jacket and glanced at his watch. Grabbing his duffel, he figured he had three more hours of quiet. He thought he might put in a game tape and relax in front of his big-screen television. Maybe call a friend and have her over for lunch. A certain leggy redhead came to mind.

Luc stepped out of the elevator onto the nineteenth floor and moved down the hall to the northeast corner condo. He'd bought it shortly after his trade to the Chinooks last summer. He wasn't crazy about the interior—which reminded him of the old cartoon
The Jetsons
with its chrome and stone and rounded corners—but the view . . . the view kicked ass.

He opened the door, and his plans for the day collapsed as he tripped over a blue North Face backpack thrown on the beige carpet. A red snowboard coat was tossed on the navy leather sofa, and rings and bracelets were piled in a heap on one of the wrought-iron-and-glass end tables. Rap music blared through his stereo system, and Shaggy did the bump and grind on Luc's big-screen television, which was tuned in to MTV.

Marie. Marie was home early.

Luc tossed the backpack and his duffel on the sofa as he moved down the hall. He knocked on the first of the three bedroom doors, then he cracked it open. Marie lay on her bed, her short dark hair pulled up on top of her head like a stunted black feather duster. Mascara pooled beneath her eyes and her cheeks were pale. She held a ragged blue Care Bear to her chest.

“What are you doing home?” he asked.

“The school tried to call you. I don't feel well.”

Luc moved into the room for a closer look at his sixteen-year-old sister all curled up on her lace duvet. He figured she was probably crying about her mother again. It had only been a month since her funeral, and he thought he ought to say something to console Marie, but he really didn't know what to say and he always seemed to make everything worse when he tried.

“Do you have the flu?” he asked instead. She looked so much like her mother it was spooky. Or what he remembered her mother looked like.

“No.”

“Coming down with a cold?”

“No.”

“What's wrong?”

“I just feel sick.”

Luc had been sixteen himself when his sister had been born to his father and his father's fourth wife. Other than a few holiday visits, Luc had never been around Marie. He'd been so much older. They'd lived in Los Angeles; he'd lived across the country. He'd been busy with his own life, and until she'd come to live with him last month, he hadn't seen her since their father's funeral ten years ago. Now he found himself suddenly responsible for a sister he didn't even know. He was her only living relative under retirement age. He was a hockey player. A bachelor. A guy. And he didn't have a clue what in the hell to do with her.

“Do you want some soup?” he asked.

She shrugged as more water filled her eyes. “I guess so,” she sniffed.

Relieved, Luc quickly left the room and headed for the kitchen. He pulled a big can of chicken noodle from the cupboard and shoved it beneath the can opener sitting on the black marble countertop. He knew she was having a difficult time, but Jesus, she was driving him crazy. If she wasn't crying, she was sulking. If she wasn't sulking, she was rolling her big blue eyes at him as if he were a moron.

Luc poured the soup into two bowls and added water. He'd tried to send her to counseling, but she'd been through counseling during her mother's illness and she was adamant that she'd had enough.

He shoved his and Marie's lunch into the microwave and set the time. Besides making him crazy, having a moody teenage girl in his house seriously cut into his social life. Lately, the only time he had to himself was on the road. Something had to change. This situation wasn't working out for either of them. He'd had to hire a responsible woman to come and stay with Marie and live in his condo when he was out of town. Her name was Gloria Jackson and she was probably in her sixties. Marie didn't like her, but Marie didn't seem to like anyone.

The best thing to do would be to find Marie a good boarding school. She'd be happier there, living with girls her own age who knew about hair and makeup and
liked
listening to rap. He felt a twinge of guilt. His reasons for sending her to boarding school weren't totally altruistic. He wanted his old life back. That might make him a selfish bastard, but he'd worked hard to reclaim that life. To climb out of the chaos and into relative calm.

“I need some money.”

Luc turned from his observation of the soup spinning around in the microwave to his sister standing in the doorway of the kitchen. They'd already talked about a special account for her. “After we sell your mother's house and your Social Security starts to kick in, you'll—”

“I need some today,” she interrupted him. “Right now.”

He reached for the wallet in his back pocket. “How much do you need?”

A wrinkle appeared across her brow. “I think seven or eight dollars.”

“You don't know?”

“Ten to be on the safe side.”

Curious and because he thought he should ask, he said, “What do you need the money for?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I don't have the flu.”

“What do you have?”

“I have cramps and I don't have anything.” Her gaze lowered to her stocking-covered feet. “I don't know any girls at school to ask, and by the time I got to the nurse, it was too late. That's why I had to come home from school.”

“Too late for what? What are you talking about?”

“I have cramps and I don't have any . . .” Her face turned red and she blurted, “Tampons. I looked in your bathroom 'cause I thought maybe one of your girlfriends might have left some. But you don't have any.”

The microwave dinged at the same moment Luc finally understood Marie's problem. He opened the door and burned his thumbs as he set the soup on the counter. “Oh.” He pulled two spoons from a drawer, and because he didn't know what to say, he asked, “Do you want crackers?”

“Yes.”

Somehow, she didn't seem old enough. Did girls start their periods at sixteen? He guessed so, but he'd never thought about it. He'd been raised an only child, and his thoughts had always revolved around playing hockey.

“Do you want some aspirin?” One of his old girlfriends had taken his painkillers when she'd had cramps. When he thought back on it, his money and their addiction had been the only thing they'd had in common.

“No.”

“After lunch we'll go to the store,” he said. “I could use some deodorant.”

She finally glanced up, but she didn't move.

“Do you need to go now?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her standing there, embarrassed and as uncomfortable as he was. The guilt he'd experienced a moment ago eased. Sending her to live with girls her own age was definitely the right move. A girls' boarding school would know about cramps and other female things.

“I'll get my keys,” he said. Now he just had to find a way to break it to her that wouldn't make it sound as if he were trying to get rid of her.

Chapter 2
Exchanging Pleasantries: A Fight

“S
ay that again?” Caroline Mason's fork paused halfway to her mouth, a piece of lettuce and chicken suspended in midair.

“I'm covering the Chinooks games and traveling with them on the road,” Jane repeated for the benefit of her childhood friend.

“The hockey team?” Caroline worked at Nordstrom's selling her favorite addiction—shoes. In appearance, she and Jane were on opposite ends of the spectrum. She was tall, blond, and blue-eyed, a walking advertisement of beauty and good taste. And their temperaments weren't much closer. Jane was introverted, while Caroline didn't have a thought or emotion that wasn't expressed. Jane shopped from catalogues. Caroline considered catalogues a Tool of Satan.

“Yep, that's what I'm doing on this side of town. I just came from a meeting with the owner and the team.” The two friends were fire and ice, night and day, but they shared a common background and history that bonded them like Super Glue.

Caroline's mother had run off with a trucker and had drifted in and out of her life. Jane had grown up without a mother at all. They'd lived next to each other in Tacoma, on the same desolate block. Poor. The have-nots. They both knew what it was like to go to school wearing canvas sneakers when most everyone else wore leather.

Grown up now, they each dealt with the past in their own ways. Jane socked away money as if each paycheck were her last, while Caroline blew outrageous sums on designer shoes like she was Imelda Marcos.

Caroline set her fork on the side of her plate and placed a hand on her chest. “You get to travel with the Chinooks and interview them while they're naked?”

Jane nodded and dug into the lunch special, macaroni and cheese with smoked ham chunks and crushed croutons baked on top. With the weather outside, it was definitely a mac-and-cheese day. “Hopefully, they'll keep their pants up until I leave the locker room.”

“You're kidding, right? What reason, other than seeing buff men, is there for walking into a smelly locker room?”

“Interviewing them for the paper.” Now that she'd seen all of them this morning, she was beginning to feel a bit apprehensive. Next to her five-foot stature, they were huge.

“Do you think they'd notice if you snapped some pictures?”

“They might.” Jane laughed. “They didn't seem as dumb as you'd expect.”

“Bummer. I wouldn't mind seeing some naked hockey players.”

And now that she'd seen them all, seeing them naked was one aspect of the job that worried her. She had to travel with these men. Sit with them on the airplane. She didn't want to know what they looked like without their clothes. The only time she wanted to be near a naked man was when she was naked herself. And while she wrote explicit sexual fantasies for a living, in her real life she wasn't all that comfortable with blatant nudity. She was not like the woman who wrote about dating and relationships in the column for the
Times
.
And she was absolutely nothing like Honey Pie.

Jane Alcott was a fraud.

“If you can't take pictures,” Caroline said as she reached for her fork once more and picked the chicken from her Oriental salad, “take notes for me.”

“That's unethical on a lot of different levels,” she informed her friend. Then she thought about Luc Martineau's offer to “piss” in her coffee, and she figured she could bend ethics in his case. “I did see Luc Martineau's butt.”

“Au naturel?”

“As the day he was born.”

Caroline leaned forward. “How was it?”

“Good.” She pictured Luc's sculpted shoulders and back, the indent of his spine, and his towel sliding down his perfect round cheeks. “Really fine.” No denying it, Luc was a beautiful man; too bad his personality sucked.

“God,” Caroline sighed, “why didn't I finish college and get a job like yours?”

“Too many parties.”

“Oh, yeah.” Caroline paused a moment, then smiled. “You need an assistant. Take me.”

“The paper won't pay for an assistant.”

“Bummer.” Her smile fell and her gaze lowered to Jane's blazer. “You should get new clothes.”

“I have new clothes,” Jane said around a bite of ham and cheese.

“I mean new, as in attractive. You wear too much black and gray. People will begin to wonder if you're depressed.”

“I'm not depressed.”

“Maybe not, but you should wear color. Reds and greens especially. You're going to be traveling with big strong testosterone-infused men all season. It's the perfect opportunity to get a guy interested in you.”

Jane was traveling with the team on business. She didn't want to catch the interest of a man. Especially a hockey player. Especially if they were all like Luc Martineau. When she'd declined his offer concerning the coffee, he'd almost smiled. Almost. Instead he'd said,
If you change your mind about that, let me know
.
Only he hadn't said
about.
He'd said
aboot
.
He was a jerk who hadn't completely lost his Canadian accent. The last thing she wanted or needed was to attract attention from men like him. She glanced down at her black blazer and pants, and her gray blouse. She thought she looked okay. “It's J. Crew.”

Caroline narrowed her blue eyes and Jane knew what was coming. J. Crew was
not
Donna Karan. “Exactly. From the catalogue?”

“Of course.”

“And black.”

“You know I'm color blind.”

“You're not color blind. You just can't tell when things clash.”

“True.” That's why she liked black. She looked good in black. She couldn't make a fashion faux pas in black.

“You've got a nice little body, Jane. You should work it, show it off. Come back to Nordy's with me, and I'll help you pick out some nice things.”

“No way. The last time I let you pick out my clothes, I looked like Greg Brady. Only not as groovy.”

“That was in the sixth grade and we had to go to Goodwill to do our shopping. We're older and have more money. At least you do.”

Yes, and she planned to keep it that way too. She had plans for her nest egg. Plans that included buying a house, not designer clothes. “I like the way I dress,” she said as if they hadn't had the same conversation a thousand times in the past.

Caroline rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “I met a guy.”

Of course she had. Since they'd both turned thirty last spring, Caroline's biological clock had started ticking and all she'd been able to think about were her eggs shriveling up. She'd decided it was time to get married, and since she didn't want to leave Jane out of the fun, she'd decided it was time they
both
got married. But there was a problem with Caroline's plan. Jane had pretty much decided she was a magnet for men who would break her heart and treat her bad, and since jerks seemed to be the only type of man who made her go all weak and sweaty, she'd been thinking about getting a cat and staying home. But she was stuck in a catch-22. If she stayed home, she wouldn't discover new material for her
Single Girl
column.

“He has a friend.”

“The last ‘friend' you set me up with drove a serial killer van with a couch in the back.”

“I know, and he wasn't real pleased to read about himself in your
Times
column.”

“Too bad. He was one of those guys who assumes I'm desperate and horny because of the column.”

“This time will be different.”

“No.”

“You might like him.”

“That's the problem. If I like him, I know he'll treat me like crap, then dump me.”

“Jane, you rarely give anyone the chance to dump you. You always keep one foot out the door, waiting for an excuse.”

Caroline didn't have a lot of room to talk. She dumped guys for being too perfect. “You haven't had a boyfriend since Vinny,” Caroline said.

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.” He'd borrowed money from her to buy other women presents. As far as she could tell, he'd bought mostly cheap lingerie. Jane hated cheap lingerie.

“Look on the bright side. After you had to dump him, you were so upset you regrouted your bathroom.”

It was a sad fact of Jane's life that when she was brokenhearted and depressed, she cleaned with a vengeance. When she was happy, she tended to overlook towels falling out of the closet onto her head.

After lunch, Jane dropped Caroline off at Nordstrom's, then drove to the
Seattle Times
.
Because she wrote a monthly column, she didn't have a desk at the paper. In fact, she'd hardly ever ventured into the building.

She met with the sports editor, Kirk Thornton, and he didn't have to tell her he was less than thrilled to have her covering for Chris. His reception of her was so cold, he could have chilled a glass on his forehead. He introduced her to the three other sports reporters, and their welcome wasn't much warmer than Kirk's. Except for Jeff Noonan's.

Even though Jane was hardly ever in the
Seattle Times
building, she'd heard about Jeff Noonan. He was known by the female staff as the Nooner and was a sexual harassment lawsuit just waiting to happen. Not only did he believe a woman's place was in the kitchen, he believed it was on her back on the kitchen table. The look he gave her told her he was thinking about her naked, and he smiled like she should be flattered or something.

The look she returned told him she'd rather eat rat poison.

The BAC-111 lifted off from SeaTac at six-twenty-three
A.M
.
Within minutes, the jet broke through the cloud cover and banked left. The morning sun shot through the oval windows like spotlights. Almost as one, the shades were slammed shut against the brutal glare, and a good number of hockey players put their seats back and sacked out for the four-hour flight. A mix of aftershave and cologne filled the cabin as the jet finished its ascent and evened out.

Without taking her eyes from the itinerary in her lap, Jane reached over her head and adjusted the air. She turned its full force on her face as she looked over the team schedule. She noticed that some of their flights left right after a game while others left the next morning. But except for the flight times, the schedule was always the same. The team practiced the day before each game and had a “light” run-through the day of the game. It never varied.

She set aside the itinerary and picked up a copy of the
Hockey News
.
The morning light broke over the NHL team reports, and she paused to read a column concerning the Chinooks. The subhead read, “Chinooks' Goaltending Key to Success.”

For the past few weeks, Jane had crammed her head with NHL stats. She'd familiarized herself with the names of the Chinooks and the positions they played. She'd read as many newspaper articles on the team as she could find, but she still didn't have a firm grasp on the game or its players. She was going to have to fly by the seat of her pants and hope she didn't crash and burn. She needed the respect and trust of these men. She wanted them to treat her as they did other sports journalists.

In her briefcase, she'd stashed two invaluable books:
Hockey for Dummies
and
The Bad Boys of Hockey
.
The first gave her the rudiments and the how-tos, while the second told the dark side of the game and the men who played it.

Without lifting her face, she glanced across the aisle and down a row. Her gaze followed the emergency lights running down the dark blue carpeting and stopped on Luc Martineau's polished loafers and charcoal trousers. Since their conversation at the Key Arena, she'd done more research on him than the other players.

He'd been born and raised in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. His father was French-Canadian and divorced his mother when Luc had been just five years old. Luc had been drafted sixth overall into the NHL at the age of nineteen by the Oilers. He'd been traded to Detroit and finally Seattle. The most interesting reading had come from
The Bad Boys of Hockey
, which had devoted an entire five chapters to Luc. The book had gone into detail about the bad boy goalie, claiming he had the quickest hands on and off the ice. The photos had shown a string of actresses and models on his arm, and while none of them had come right out and claimed they'd slept with him, they hadn't denied it either.