True Love and Other Disasters (13 page)

It wasn’t the sort of reaction he’d expect out of a former stripper and Playmate. Especially an unrepentant stripper and Playmate. He didn’t really know what he’d expected. Maybe someone who thought sex was no big deal, no matter who was
having it. At least, that had been the attitude of the strippers he’d known. “Huh.”

“Huh what?”

“For someone who used to get naked for a living, you seem all uptight about sex.”

“That was a job.” She shook her head as she looked into his eyes. “Stripping was never about sex.”

Which made no sense at all. A woman getting naked was always about sex. “Neither was
Playboy,
” she added.

She should tell that to all the guys who looked at her photos, because it sure as hell looked a lot like sex. At least it had to him. It had felt like it too. He thought of her wearing those pearls and felt his sac get tight. “Bullshit. You sold sex.”

She shrugged. “That was acting.”

He didn’t believe her, but all this talk about sex had him thinking of sliding his hands up the back of her jeans and cupping her smooth, bare behind as she put her hot moist mouth against his throat again. He needed to get out away from her, but he didn’t want to stand up just yet. His jeans were loose, but not that loose. “Again, I apologize for kissing you the other night.” He looked at his Rolex as if he had somewhere else to go. “I’d had a few too many beers. That’s not an excuse, and I’m sorry.”

She took the hint—thank the Lord—and reached
for her purse on the nearby chair. “It was inappropriate on both our parts,” she said.

“Let’s just chalk it up to alcohol and forget it happened.”

“I can do that.” She hung the gold chain strap over one shoulder. “Can you?”

He was going to try like hell. “Absolutely. You have my word that it won’t happen again.” She stood before him like a sexual buffet that he wanted to dive into headfirst. “You could run around naked in front of me and I wouldn’t do a thing.”

She raised one skeptical brow. “Really?”

“Yep.” He lowered his gaze down the full curves beneath her shirt then back up again. “You could go ahead and whip that top off and I’d just sit here kind of bored.”

“You wouldn’t move a muscle?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’d probably yawn.”

She dropped her purse to the floor, crossed her arms over her chest, and grasped the bottom of her shirt. “You sure you won’t feel anything?”

Holy shit. “Yeah.”

Her fingers gathered the edge, pulling it up until a strip of smooth white skin showed just above her jeans resting on her hips. “Still not feeling anything?”

Ty had been playing in the NHL for more than fifteen years now. He knew a thing or two about
putting on his game face. “Not a thing.” To prove his point, he yawned. Which was difficult considering he had a hard time breathing.

She laughed, a soft seductive little chuckle as she pulled the shirt up past her little belly button, pierced with a pink jewel. “Nothing?”

The blood rushed from his head to his crotch and he fought the urge to fall to his knees and press his open mouth against her smooth belly. “Sorry, Mrs. Duffy.” Then he told the biggest whopper of the day. “You’re just not that attractive.”

She raised the bottom of the T-shirt further up her slim ribs. “You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“A lot of men have told me I’m beautiful.”

“A lot of men lie to get women naked.” The shirt rose a few stingy inches.

“Even women they’re not attracted to?”

His gaze took in her smooth belly as she pulled the shirt up just past the pink satin cupping the bottoms of her breasts. “Depends.”

“On?”

“If it’s after midnight and the bar’s about to close.” He held his breath, waiting for more. “A lot of people get more attractive at closing time. But I’ve never been the kind of guy to go ugly just to get laid. You could probably come over here and give me a lap dance right now and I’d just go ahead and fall asleep.”

Her little chuckle became deeper as if she could read his mind and knew he was lying. “I haven’t given a lap dance since I quit Aphrodite years ago, but I imagine it’s like riding a bike.” She gathered the shirt in one hand and slid a slow, deliberate palm across her bare belly. “I guarantee that you wouldn’t fall asleep.” There was something sinful and hot about a woman touching herself. “Within seconds you’d be whimpering like a baby and begging for mercy.”

“That’s a bold statement, Mrs. Duffy.”

“Just stating a fact, Mr. Savage.” Her little finger skimmed the top of her waistband and dipped below the top button. “You feelin’ sleepy yet?”

“Keep going. I’ll let you know.”

The tip of her ring finger followed her pinky beneath her waistband. “Bored?”

“Gettin’ there.”

“Wait.” Her hand stopped along with his heart. “Wouldn’t a lap dance be considered inappropriate behavior?”

Hell no!

She laughed and dropped her shirt. “And just after we said it wouldn’t happen anymore.”

His hands grasped the edge of the table to keep from reaching for her. From grabbing the waistband of her jeans and pulling her to him until she stood between his thighs, close enough to touch. He wanted to tell her she could behave inappro
priately all she wanted. Anywhere. His bed came to mind, but the look in her clear, almost calculating eyes stopped him. While she’d just turned him inside out and upside down, she felt nothing.

She reached for her purse. “Are we going to be able to forget this happened, too?”

“Not a problem.” With his dick throbbing against his inner thigh, he said, “I’ve already forgotten.”

She moved toward the door but turned and looked at him over her shoulder. “Me too. You’re not the only one who was bored.” The door swung open before she reached it and her assistant stepped inside. “What’s up, Jules?” she asked.

Jules looked from her to Ty. “I just came to let you know that I set up a meeting next week with the director of the Chinooks Foundation.”

“Sounds good.” She adjusted the purse on her shoulder and looked at Ty one last time. “See you around, Mr. Savage.”

Jules watched her leave, then asked, “Is there something going on between you and Faith?”

“No,” he answered truthfully. There was nothing and there could never be anything either.

“It looked like something.”

“I’m the captain of her hockey team.” He raised his hands and rubbed his face. What the hell had just happened? “That’s it.”

“I hope that’s true. She’s my boss and I don’t allow myself to think of her like that,” Jules said.

He dropped his hands. “Like what?”

“Like the way you were looking at her. Like she was standing naked in front of you.”

It was so close to the truth, Ty stared at the bastard. “Even if that’s true, why is it your business—eh?”

“Because her husband just died and she’s lonely. I’d hate to see her get hurt.”

Ty folded his arms across his chest. “You seem overly concerned with her feelings.”

“I’m concerned about her, yes, but she’s a survivor. I’m more concerned about the Chinooks.” Now it was Jules’s turn to fold his arms across his chest. “What do you think the other guys will say about you making it with the owner of the team?”

“You seem to know. So, why don’t you tell me?”

Jules shook his head and stared him in the eyes. And as much as Ty wanted to punch him in the head, he had always admired a guy who didn’t back down when he was right. And as much as Ty hated to admit it, Jules was right. “I don’t think I have to list how many ways that would be profoundly stupid. There is no reason why we can’t knock out the Sharks in the next game and advance to the third round. Then we’re only two
teams from winning the cup. I don’t think I need to tell you what a distraction that would be for you and everyone else.”

“That’s right. You don’t.” Ty stood. “That’s why we were talking about my father dating her mother.” Which was true. In between him looking at her like she was naked. “I like you, Jules. If I didn’t like you, I’d just tell you to stay the hell out of my business.” He moved toward the door and stopped to look down into the other man’s face. “So, I’m going to be straight with you. Every man on the team has seen those pictures in
Playboy
. There’s no point in even denying that. Hell, you’ve seen them, and Mrs. Duffy doesn’t seem at all worried about it. But there’s a world of difference between thinking about her in those pictures and taking it a step further. Let me assure you that nothing is going to get in my way of making it all the way to the finals.

“Not winning the cup has been a monkey on my back for fifteen years. I’ve been one overtime shot away from having my name engraved on the cup, and the last thing I’m going to do is fuck that up.” He gave Jules one last hard look and walked from the room.

He’d parked his BMW in the lower level of the parking garage, and on his way home, he thought about what he needed to do in tomorrow night’s game. They needed to shut down San Jose’s de
fense, clinch the second round, and move on to the third. He thought about Faith and Jules. And he thought about his dad and Faith’s mother. Of all the women in Seattle, why did the old man have to screw around with her? Ty didn’t get it. It was like Pavel was the Pied Piper of penis and women followed him anywhere.

He drove across the floating bridge of Lake Washington to Mercer Island. He parked the BMW in between his Bugatti Veyron and his father’s Cadillac.

“Jesus, Dad,” Ty said as he walked into the kitchen and tossed his keys on the deep brown granite countertop. “You didn’t tell me that Faith Duffy walked in on you having sex with her mother.”

Pavel shrugged as he turned from the refrigerator and shut the door. “She was supposed to be in California.” He popped the top on a can of Molson and shrugged as if that said it all. “But she got sick and came home early.”

Ty doubted she’d been sick and suspected her sudden departure from San Jose had more to do with that kiss in the hall than bad fish or the flu bug. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You are judgmental.” Pavel raised the can to his lips and took a drink.

“No. You didn’t tell me because you knew I wouldn’t like it.” He sighed and shook his head.
“Seattle is a big city, Dad. Couldn’t you find another woman besides Faith Duffy’s mother to bang?”

Slowly Pavel lowered his beer. “Don’t talk disrespectful, Tyson.”

That was the weird paradox about Pavel. You could treat women like shit, and that was okay. But you couldn’t talk disrespectfully. “What’s going to happen when you break up with her?” There wasn’t a doubt in Ty’s mind that he would, too. “I don’t want to have to deal with a hysterical woman showing up here.” Like when women always discovered that Pavel was married, or wasn’t going to marry them, or he had dumped them for someone else.

“Val isn’t the type to get too attached. She’s only in town for a short time to help her daughter through a difficult time. She’s a devoted mother.”

Which brought up a subject Ty had been meaning to talk about. He couldn’t come right out and ask the old man when he was going back to his house. “What are your plans?” he asked instead as he moved toward the refrigerator and opened the stainless-steel door.

Pavel shrugged and raised his can. “Just having a beer. Later Valerie invited me over for dinner. I’m sure the two ladies wouldn’t mind if you joined us.”

After his latest conversation with Faith and
the enormous wood she’d given him, that wasn’t going to happen. “I’m meeting some of the guys at Conte’s for poker and Cubans.” He was definitely in the mood to kick some ass on the poker table.

“You spend too much time in the company of men and it makes you bad-tempered.”

“I’m not bad-tempered! Jesus, I wish people would lay off about that.”

Pavel shook his head. “You’ve always been so sensitive. Like your mother.”

His father was talking out of his ass again. Sensitive? Like his mother? Ty was nothing like his mother. His mother had spent her life loving the wrong man. Ty had never been in love at all.

“You need to find a woman,” Pavel suggested. “A woman to take care of you.”

That just proved how well the old man knew him. The last thing Ty needed was a woman in his life. A down-and-dirty hookup was a different matter, but even that was too big a distraction. And right now, he couldn’t even afford a quick, wham-bam distraction.

O
n Monday morning Jane Martineau walked into Faith’s office at the Key. A petite little package with dark hair and glasses, Jane wore very little makeup and was dressed in black from head to toe. She was cute rather than pretty, and not what Faith expected in either a lifestyle reporter or the wife of former elite goaltender Luc Martineau.

“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said as she shook Faith’s hand. She put a black leather briefcase on the desk and reached inside. “I had to threaten Darby with physical harm if he didn’t at least approach you for the interview. I also sicced his wife on him.”

“I didn’t know he was married.” For the inter
view, Faith hadn’t known what to wear and had dressed in a white blouse, her black pencil skirt, and black patent leather T-strap pumps. Clearly, she’d overdressed.

Jane took out a pad of paper and a pen. “To my best friend since grade school, Caroline. I introduced them.”

“Wow. You still see your friend from grade school.” Faith didn’t know why she found that unusual, other than she hadn’t seen her friends from grade school for about fifteen years or so.

“I talk to her almost every day.”

“That must be nice. To have a friend for that long.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to sound pathetic.”

Jane looked at her through the lenses of her glasses as she dug around in the briefcase. “You didn’t. People come and go. Caroline and I are fortunate to still be in each other’s lives.”

Faith eyed the small tape recorder Jane pulled out of her briefcase and asked, “Do you have to use that?” God forbid she said something pathetic and it ended up in the newspaper.

“It’s as much for your protection as mine.” She set it on the desk and put the briefcase on the floor. “Don’t worry. I won’t ask you any embarrassing questions. This isn’t an exposé or a hit piece. Seattle hockey fans are excited about the playoffs and curious about you. They want to know a little
bit about Faith Duffy. You don’t have to answer anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. Fair enough?”

Faith relaxed a bit. “Fair enough.”

Jane sat and started the interview with simple questions about where Faith had been born and how she’d met Virgil. Then she asked, “You’re only thirty years old; how does it feel to own an NHL franchise?”

“Shocking. Unbelievable. I still can’t believe it.”

“You didn’t know you were going to inherit the team?”

“No. Virgil never mentioned it. I found out the day his will was read.”

“Wow. That’s a nice inheritance.” Jane looked at her through the lenses of her glasses. “There are probably a lot of women who’d love to be in your shoes.”

True. She had a great life. “It’s a lot of work.”

“What do you know about running an entire organization like the Chinooks?”

“Admittedly not a lot, but I’m learning every day. I’m getting on-the-job training, and I’m actually starting to understand hockey and how the organization runs. It’s not as scary as it was a few weeks ago. Of course, Virgil was smart enough to hire good people and to let them do their jobs. So that makes my job easier.”

Jane asked about goals and points and the Chi
nooks’ chances of winning the Stanley cup. In a 4–2 win the previous Saturday, the Chinooks had beaten the Sharks in Game Six and were set to play the Red Wings in the third round Thursday in Detroit. “Zetterberg and Datsyuk were both top scorers in their division during the regular season,” Jane said, referring to two Detroit players. “What’s the plan to slow down the momentum of Zetterberg and Datsyuk?”

“We just need to keep playing hockey the way we like to play it. We had thirty-two shots on goal last Saturday night, compared to the Sharks’ seventeen.”

The two of them left the office and headed down to the arena, where the team was practicing. “Everyone thinks we should be afraid of Detroit,” Faith said, and the closer they moved to the tunnel, the more the air thickened with testosterone. “They’ve got some great talent, but so do we. I think it will come down to…” she thought of Ty and smiled “…what’s in a player’s gut.”

“Hey, Mrs. Duffy,” the “Sniper,” Frankie Kawczynski, called out as Faith and Jane approached. He stood in the tunnel in front of a blowtorch heating the curve of his stick.

“Hello, Mr. Kawczynski,” she said, her heels sinking into the thick mats. Frankie was in his late twenties and built like a tank. At the moment, he stood in a pair of sweatpants, low around his
hips, and a pair of flip-flops. He had a pit bull tattoo on his bare back. Her attention was drawn to the play of muscles as he heated his stick. “How are you?”

“Great.” His dark beard had gone full Mountain Man, and he flashed a brash, cocky smile. Faith was suddenly very aware that she was surrounded by men. Big, tough men who towered over her and Jane. Some of them were half naked. “Are you going to practice with us this morning?” Frankie asked.

Walker Brookes walked from the locker room and grabbed his skates off the sharpening rack. She fought the urge to whip her head around for a better look. “I forgot my gear.” Within her soul, Layla fought to get out. She kicked and screamed for just one little peek. Just one, but Mrs. Duffy did not stare at men’s asses. At least not when a reporter was around. “Perhaps some other time.” And she kept her gaze glued to Frankie’s face.

Vlad Fetisov walked out of the locker room with his helmet in one hand and stick in the other. A wide smile curved his mouth as he moved toward them on his skates.

“Hi, little Sharky,” the Russian greeted Jane.

“Hi, Vlad,” Jane said. “How’s it going?”

“Life iz good. How iz Lucky?” he asked, referring to Jane’s husband.

“He’s good.”

As soon as Vlad moved onto the ice Faith asked, “Why did he call you ‘Sharky’?”

“That’s the name the guys gave me because I beat them all at darts. They’re very competitive at everything they do.”

They stopped at the end of the tunnel and Faith looked out across the rink. The men on the ice were divided into two groups. Offense practiced at one end; defense drilled at the other. They appeared even more scruffy and unkempt, but they skated with well-timed precision and skill, weaving in and out and passing the puck. There were about fifteen men on the ice, all dressed in dark blue practice sweats and white helmets, but as if pulled by an invisible force, her gaze landed on a pair of broad shoulders and dark hair curling up from beneath the white helmet of the man standing with his back to her at center ice. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was Ty. Something warm in the pit of her stomach recognized him.

“Vlad is a little warped,” Jane said, thankfully pulling Faith’s attention from center ice.

Faith had never gotten a creepy vibe from the Russian. Still she asked, “Is he a perv?”

“No. He’s just never been shy about dropping his towel in front of women. He used to like to shock me, I think. They all liked to shock me.” Jane shook her head and adjusted the strap of her briefcase. “They didn’t want me traveling with
the team. A woman on the jet is considered bad luck.”

Perhaps that’s why they’d been so quiet when she’d traveled with them. “That’s stupid and sexist.”

“Exactly.” Jane laughed. “They’re hockey players.” The two of them watched the assistant coach lay a series of pucks on the red line and Jane said, “Tell me about Ty Savage.”

She thought about the morning she’d stood in the conference room pulling up her shirt. Of his hot blue eyes and the day she’d lost her mind and let Layla out for the second time. The day she’d pulled up her shirt like a stripper, slow and deliberate just to prove him wrong. The day she’d slid her hand across her belly toward the button of her jeans, just to see the heat in his eyes burn a little hotter. “What would you like to know?”

“Do you think he has what it takes to lead this team to the final round?”

“Well, I think the numbers he puts up speak for him.” She watched Ty take off from one end of the ice, skating like he was on fire. Wind flattened the Chinooks logo on his sweatshirt against his chest as he raced toward the red line. With the blade of his stick on the ice, he turned at the center line and one-timed the row of pucks at the goalie. The goalie twisted and contorted to stop each shot. He caught one puck while the others hit his pads with
loud
thwaps
. One of the pucks got through and hit the inside of the net. “He’s a very intense, serious guy.” Except when he was trying to use reverse psychology to get her to give him a lap dance. “Very disciplined and in control. I wonder what he would be like if he ever let go.” What she hadn’t anticipated that day in the conference room, while he’d sat there acting like he was bored, was the way his hot, steamy gaze on her body had turned her all hot and steamy inside.

With the wind still flattening his sweatshirt, he shoved his stick beneath one arm and looked at the laces on his glove. “Really let go,” she added, thinking of him walking away from her at the Marriott. “Maybe he wouldn’t be so rude and surly.”

“He makes rude and surly look good,” Jane said.

That was an understatement.

“He’s a very good-looking man.”

Faith smiled. “I hadn’t noticed.”

As if he’d heard them, Ty looked up as he came to a hockey stop near the goal. From half the length of the rink, she felt his gaze as cool as the ice on which he stood. It froze her in place even as it heated her up inside.

“A lot has been made out of the fact that you have a contentious relationship with your captain. Is that true?”

As his eyes stared into hers, he grabbed a water bottle from the top of the net and lifted it to his mouth. The water shot between his lips and then stopped. He swallowed then rubbed one big gloved hand across his mouth. For the past month her life had been a whirlwind of activity and change. Sometimes she couldn’t recall what she’d done from day to day, but she remembered every hot detail of Ty’s mouth on hers. “I wouldn’t call it contentious.”

“What would you call it?”

What did you call a hot, overwhelming attraction to the one guy on the planet for whom it was completely inappropriate to lust after? “Complicated.” Impossible. A disaster waiting to happen.

“There you are,” Jules said as he moved through the tunnel toward Faith. A man with red hair and a mustache walked beside him.

“We need to get a photograph of Faith with the team,” Jane said.

“Now?” She looked at the shorter woman.

“Yeah.”

“We have a whole PR campaign with Ty, so why don’t we shoot with some of the other players?” Jules suggested.

“Faith, this is Brad Marsh.” Jane introduced the stranger. “Staff photographer for the
Post Intelligencer
. Brad, this is Faith Duffy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Faith.” He took her hand in his. “I’m a huge Chinooks fan.”

“I’m thrilled to meet you. Especially since you love my team.”

Jules stepped out onto the ice and pointed to the defenders. “I need some of you guys to volunteer to take a photograph with Mrs. Duffy for the
Post Intelligencer
.”

Sam and Alexander Devereaux were the first to skate toward her, but the rest followed close behind.

“I’ll do it.”

“Count me in.”

Soon eight big defensemen, including Vlad, had volunteered.

“Let’s take the picture at center ice,” Brad suggested. “I’ll try and get some of the logo in the shot.”

Faith carefully stepped onto the ice, and Blake Conte offered his arm. “Be careful, Mrs. Duffy,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to fall and hurt yourself.”

Sam offered his arm on her other side. “Someone might have to give you CPR.”

“I know mouth-to-mouth,” Blake added, and Faith sincerely hoped she would never have to take him up on the offer. For some bizarre reason, he’d shaved his playoffs beard into a reddish
blond strip of hair beneath his nose. It ran down his chin, too. Kind of like he’d gone in for a wax and come out with a Brazilian on his face.

“And chest compressions,” Sam said, whose playoffs beard was blond and kind of patchy.

Faith placed her hands on their forearms and smiled. “It’s good to know you boys are worth more to me than just looking good, shooting pucks, and spitting.” Being the female owner of a hockey team had a few nice perks. Being escorted by two very hot hockey players was a good one.

“Look at those bastards,” Ty said from his position halfway across the ice from Faith. “You’d think they’d never been around a woman before.” The last time he’d seen Faith, she’d pulled up her shirt, then told him she was bored. Sure, he’d said it first, but he’d been lying.

First-string goaltender Marty Darche pushed the front of his helmet up and revealed his impressive facial hair. “You’ve got to admit, Saint, there aren’t a lot of women around who look like her.” He leaned back against the pipes and shook his head. “Damn.”

The photographer pointed to a few of the guys and called out, “Why don’t one of you men give Mrs. Duffy your stick?” The whole blue line rushed forward.

“I wouldn’t mind giving her my stick,” Marty said through a chuckle.

Ty liked Marty. Usually, he’d laugh at the stupid shit that came out of Marty’s mouth. Most of the time he’d add his own stupid shit and say something about eight to ten inches of good wood. Today he didn’t find any of it amusing, for some unknown reason. Maybe he was tired or dehydrated or something. He tended to lose his sense of humor when he was tired or dehydrated.

“Have you seen the pictures of her?”

“Yeah.” The damn pictures. But today he didn’t see the damn pictures when he looked at her. He saw her teasing smile and her smooth belly. He saw her eyes as she’d looked back over her shoulder and said she was bored.

The defense crowded around her for the photo and she laughed. The sound rippled across the ice. It brushed across his skin and tightened his chest. Surrounded by big, hulking men wearing skates and shoulder pads, she looked small and so beautifully female.

When he looked at her across the ice, he didn’t see the Playmate. He saw the woman he’d kissed in a hotel in San Jose. He could almost feel her sexy mouth beneath his and her hands in his hair. He could see the lust in her eyes and feel the need in her kiss. He’d kissed and been kissed by a lot of
women in his life, but he’d never been kissed like that. Like an all-consuming desperation that was so hot, it made his gut clench.