See Jane Score (8 page)

“When women first meet me, they think I'm a dork.”

“Hmm, I didn't think so,” she lied, risking the bad karma.

He smiled, and the risk was worth it. “They never give me a chance.”

“Well, maybe if you didn't talk about Mensa and about your advanced degrees, you'd have better luck.”

“Think so?”

“Yep.” She was halfway through her salmon when her second drink arrived.

“Maybe you could give me some pointers.”

Right, like she was an expert. “Maybe.”

His shrewd gaze bored into her as he took a bite of potato. “I could make it worth your while,” he said again.

“I'm getting nuisance calls. Make them stop.”

He didn't appear surprised. “I'll see what I can do about that.”

“Good, because it's harassment.”

“Look at it more as initiation.”

Uh-huh. “There was a dead mouse outside my door last night.”

He took a swig of his beer. “It could have crawled there by itself.”

Sure. “I want an interview with Luc Martineau.”

“You're not the only one. Luc is a very private guy.”

“Ask him.”

“I'm not the best person to ask him. He doesn't like me.”

She raised her lemon drop to her lips. Luc didn't like her either. “Why?”

“He knows I advised against trading for him. I was fairly adamant about it.”

That was a surprise. “Why?”

“Well, it's old news, but he was injured when he was with Detroit. I'm not convinced a player his age can come back from major ACT surgery on both knees. At one time Martineau was good, maybe one of the best, but eleven million a year is a lot to gamble on a thirty-two-year-old man with bad knees. We traded a first-round draft pick, a heavy-hitting defender, and a pair of bookend wings. That left us weak on the right side. I'm not sure Martineau was worth it.”

“He's having a good season,” she pointed out.

“So far. What happens if he's reinjured? You can't build a team around one player.”

Jane didn't know a lot about hockey, and she wondered if Darby was right. Had the team been built around their elite goalie? And did Luc, who appeared so cool and calm, feel the tremendous pressure of what was expected of him?

It took a frantic call from Mrs. Jackson for Luc to learn that Marie hadn't been to school since Luc had left Seattle. Mrs. Jackson told him she'd dropped Marie off every morning, and Marie had walked into the building. What he also discovered was that she'd then gone straight out the back.

When he'd asked Marie where she'd been spending her time, she'd answered, “The mall.” When he'd asked her why, she'd said, “Everyone at that school hates me. I don't have any friends. They're all stupid.”

“Come on, now,” he'd said, “you'll make friends and then everything will be okay.”

She'd started to cry, and like always, he felt bad and totally inadequate. “I miss my mom. I want to go home.”

After he'd hung up with Marie and Mrs. Jackson, he'd called his personal manager, Howie Stiller. When Luc returned home Tuesday night, several brochures from private schools would be waiting for him in a FedEx mailer.

Now the music from the piano drifted to where Luc sat in the corner of the lobby bar. He lifted a bottle of Molson's to his mouth and took a long drink. For Marie, going home wasn't an option. Her home was with him now, but she obviously didn't like living with him.

He set the bottle on the table and relaxed in the wing chair. He had to talk to Marie about boarding school, and he hadn't a clue how she'd respond. He wasn't certain she'd like the idea or see the logic and benefit in it. He just hoped she didn't get hysterical.

The day of her mother's funeral, she'd been beyond hysterical, and Luc hadn't known what to do for her. He'd hugged her awkwardly and told her he'd always take care of her. And he would. He would see that she always had everything she needed, but he was a piss-poor substitute for her mother.

How had his life become so complicated? He rubbed his face with his hands, and when he lowered them, he saw Jane Alcott walking toward him. It was probably too much to hope that she'd walk on by.

“Waiting for a friend?” she asked as she came to stand beside the chair opposite him.

He had been, but he'd just called and canceled. After his conversation with Marie, he wasn't in the mood for one-on-one time. He was thinking that he might catch up with some of his teammates at a sports bar downtown. He reached for the bottle and looked at her over the top as he took a swig. He watched her watching him, and he wondered if she was assuming—wrongly—that because he'd been addicted to pain medication he was just as naturally an alcoholic. In his case, one didn't have anything to do with the other.

“Nope. Just sitting here alone,” he answered as he lowered the bottle. Something was different about her tonight. Despite the dark clothing, she looked softer, less uptight. Kind of cute. Her hair, usually held back in a controlled ponytail, fell in a tangle of unruly curls to her shoulder. Her green eyes were kind of dewy like wet leaves, and her bottom lip appeared fuller and the corners of her mouth were turned up.

“I just finished a dinner meeting with Darby Hogue,” she provided as if he'd asked.

“Where?” In his suite? That would explain the hair, the eyes, and the smile. Luc never would have guessed Darby even knew what to do with a woman, much less put that soft dewy look on her face. And he never would have thought Jane Alcott, the archangel of gloom and doom, could look so warm and sexy. Damn.

“In the hotel restaurant, of course.” Her smile fell. “Where did you think?”

“The hotel restaurant,” he lied.

She wasn't buying it, and as he'd come to expect in the short time he'd known her, she wasn't going to let it go either. “Don't tell me you're one of the guys who think I slept with Virgil Duffy to get this job.”

“No, not me,” he lied some more. They'd all wondered, but he didn't know how many actually believed it.

“Great, and now I'm sleeping with Darby Hogue.”

He held up a hand. “None of my business.”

As the last strains of the piano died, Jane slid into the chair opposite him and blew out a breath. Damn, so much for a little peace.

“Why do women have to put up with this crap?” she said. “If I were a man, no would accuse me of exchanging sex for a promotion. If I were a man, no one would think I had to sleep with my sources just to get the story. They'd just slap me on the back and give me high fives and say . . .” She paused in her rant long enough to lower her voice and her brows at the same time. “‘Good piece of investigative journalism. You're the man. You're the stud.'” She ran her fingers though the sides of her hair and pushed it from her face. Her sleeves fell back and exposed the thin blue veins of her slim wrist, and the material of her sweater pulled across her small breasts. “No one accused
you
of sleeping with Vigil to get
your
job.”

He lifted his gaze to her face. “That's because
I'm
the stud.” They all had their crosses to bear, and after the day he'd had, he didn't have the energy to pretend sympathy and understanding. Luc Martineau didn't have the time or energy or inclination to worry about a pain-in-the-ass reporter. He had his own damn problems, and one of them was her.

Jane looked over the table at Luc and crossed her arms over her chest. The light overhead picked out the blond in his short hair and settled on the broad shoulders of his blue chambray shirt. The color of his shirt brought out the blue of his eyes. After the two martinis she'd had during dinner, everything was surrounded by a nice cheery glow. Or at least it had been until Luc insinuated that she and Darby were sleeping together.

“If I had a penis,” she said, “no one would think I was having sex with Darby.”

“Don't be too sure about that. We're not altogether sure of the little weasel's sexual orientation.” Luc reached for his beer and Jane's lungs squeezed a little. He'd left the top two buttons of his shirt undone and the soft material fell away from his chest, exposing his clavicle and the top of his muscular shoulder and neck.

She could set Luc straight on that score, but she didn't bother to inform him that Darby had wanted dating tips over dinner. “How're your knees?” she asked as she rested her forearms on the table.

He raised the Molson's to his mouth and said, “One hundred percent.”

“Completely pain-free?”

He lowered the bottle and sucked a drop of beer from his bottom lip. “What? You don't know? I thought you made digging into my past your calling in life.”

His conceit was outrageous and a little too close to the truth. For some reason she could not even explain to herself, Luc intrigued her more than the other Chinooks. “Do you really think that I don't have anything better to do than to spend my time thinking about you? Digging up a little of the goods on Luc Martineau?”

Fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes and he laughed. “Sweetheart, there is nothing little about Luc's goods.”

The Jane who wrote the
Single Girl
column would have a sophisticated comeback and dazzle him with her wit. Honey Pie would take him by his hand and lead him to a linen closet. She'd unbutton the rest of his shirt and place her mouth on his warm chest. Breathe heavily the scent of his skin and melt into his hot hard body. She would see for herself if he told the truth
aboot
those goods. But Jane was neither of those women. The real Jane was too inhibited and self-conscious, and she hated that a man who made her catch her breath was the same man who looked through her and found her so lacking.

“Jane?”

She blinked. “What?”

He reached across the table and the tips of his long fingers brushed hers. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” It was the slightest of touches, maybe not even quite a touch, but she felt the tingles from it travel through her palm and up her wrist. She stood so quickly the table rocked. “No. I'm going to my room.”

The combination of alcohol, Luc's molten mojo, and the grind of the last five days sloshed about in her brain as she looked around for the bank of elevators. For a few seconds she was disoriented. Three different hotels in five days, and suddenly she couldn't remember where the elevators were. She glanced toward the registration counter and spied them off to the right. Without a word, she walked from the lobby bar. This was not good, she told herself as she moved across the hotel lobby. He was so big and overtly male, he made her wrist tingle and her brain go numb. She stopped in front of the elevator doors, her cheeks hot. Why him? She didn't like him. Yes, he intrigued her, but that wasn't the same as liking him.

Luc reached around her from behind and pressed the elevator button. “Going up?” he asked next to her ear.

“Oh, yeah.” She wondered how long she would have stood there like a fool before she realized that she hadn't pressed a button.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Why?”

“You smell like vodka.”

“I had a couple martinis with dinner.”

“Ah,” he said as the doors opened and they stepped into the empty elevator. “Which floor?”

“Three.” Jane looked down at the toes of her boots, then moved her gaze to his blue and gray running shoes. As the doors closed, he leaned against the back panel and crossed one foot over the other. The hem of his Levi's brushed the white white laces. She lifted her gaze up his long legs and thighs, up the bulge of his fly and the buttons of his shirt to his face. Within the cramped confines of the elevator, his blue eyes stared back at her.

“I like your hair down.”

She pushed one side behind her ear. “I hate my hair. I can't ever do anything with it and it's always in my face.”

“It's not bad.”

Not bad? As compliments went, it ranked right up there with, “Your butt's not
that
big.” So why did a tingle in her wrist travel to her stomach? The doors opened, saving her a response. She stepped out first and he followed.

“Where's your room?”

“Three-twenty-five. Where's yours?”

“I'm on the fifth floor.”

She stopped. “You got off on the wrong floor.”

“No, I didn't.” He took her elbow in his big hand and moved with her down the hall. Through the material of her sweater, she felt the warmth of his palm. “When you stood up in the lobby, you looked like you were about to fall over.”

“I haven't had
that
much to drink.” She would have stopped again if he hadn't kept moving her along the blue and yellow carpet. “Are you escorting me to my room?”