Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  Anger flared, fueled by her whip-smart recollection of hockey stats. “And as soon as he left, you lost your next three straight. Sounds like DuPre was holding things together in Cougarland. Honey.”

  Stroger loomed closer, stealing her personal space by a few more scary inches, but Harper remained still despite the clatter of her heart. A therapist she’d seen briefly not long after the incident had told her: Forget what hurt you but never forget what it taught you. That punch had taught her she was strong. She would not be bullied. Not by Clifford Chase, Billy Stroger, or any asshole who said no, you can’t.

  “God, you were always such a coldhearted, frigid bitch.”

  Achievement unlocked. Her day was not complete until someone had called her that heartfelt endearment.

  “Have a good game, Stroger. Make sure that old has-been Rebels’ center doesn’t get by you, but I expect that’ll be tough seeing as how Remy DuPre is ten times the man you are.”

  Stroger’s arm twitched, and instinctively she took a step back. Looked like she could be bullied after all.

  “Everything okay here?”

  Harper turned to find a god in Armani standing behind them. Dante Moretti. Boston’s assistant GM—and pro hockey’s first openly gay managing executive—assessed the situation with cool detachment.

  “Just fine,” Harper managed to get out. While she didn’t know Dante well, they were often drawn together at hockey PR events, their “otherness” in this sport they loved enough to create a bond of affinity.

  Now he held her gaze for a beat, then swiveled his strong, shadowed jaw to Stroger. “Puck’s about to drop, Billy.”

  With one last glare at Harper, Stroger pivoted and stalked back to the locker room around the corner.

  Dante stepped in, giving her all his attention. “You all right, Harper?”

  “Y-yes, thanks! I should be—” She waved in the direction of the elevators that would take her to the visitors’ box. Every bit of her shredding willpower was currently being spent on not falling down.

  “I can walk you up.” His tone was so gentle she cringed. Could he tell that her internal organs were currently switching places inside her chest cavity?

  “No need! I should find a—a restroom first. Is there one on this floor?”

  “Sure. Just down the end of this corridor.” Unease danced across his handsome Italian features, but she helped him deal by curving her mouth into something that resembled a smile. So what if she looked unhinged.

  “Enjoy the game, Dante. But not too much!” Ha-ha. A hysterical stress laugh spilled from her mouth, and she left him nodding in concern. Conscious of his sharp eyes on her back, she escaped in the direction of the nearest restroom.

  Stay calm. Don’t run. One foot in front of the other. You’ve got this.

  One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Thr—

  She barely made it to the stall before she threw up her pork tacos.

  Back in Beantown.

  Remy skated onto the ice, his legs as heavy as waterlogged sandbags. Might’ve been his age, but he suspected it was the prospect of playing against his former team in front of his former fans, who gave a raucous cheer at the announcement of his name. Nice, but that didn’t make it any easier.

  Six times in his storied, luckless career, he’d come back to an old stomping ground and faced his previous comrades. But there was something different in the air tonight. Maybe it was the fact that Boston was the team he’d expected to see out his golden years with, or that these were the guys he’d once felt were brothers but were now strangers to him. A desperate cut sliced through his chest, and he knew its cause.

  This was truly his last year on pro ice.

  His body was shot, and he’d run out of chances. It was now or never, every fucking cliché you could think of to signify the sands in the hourglass running out. He needed to fight—not for the Rebels and certainly not for Harper Chase—so he’d be prime trade material come January. Beating the shit out of his former teammates would let everyone know the score, and he figured it’d be easy enough as soon as he clashed sticks with Stroger.

  While every one of Remy’s former crew had welcomed him back like the return of the prodigal when the announcer called his name, Stroger had merely sneered that ugly-ass grin of his and skated away. Billy was one guy Remy wouldn’t piss on if he were on fire. The love between them? Not lost for sure.

  So no open arms. Fine. The only conversation Remy had to have with that mofo was stick to stick on the ice.

  Warming up before the game, Remy absorbed the sound of the crowd, the swish of the blades, the gentle tap-tap of wood against puck. These were the sounds of his childhood, his adolescence, his entire adult life. This was the soundtrack of his life, and hockey gave his life meaning. He would miss it like hell.

  Someone checked him from behind, pretty much a no-no during the warm-up, and lo and behold if it wasn’t his old friend Billy, here to give him that Cougars welcome after all.

  “How’s being on the same menstrual cycle as your bosses workin’ out, Jinx?”

  “Four sisters, remember? I’m still on theirs.”

  Billy spat close to Remy’s left skate. “You make Harper cry yet?”

  Remy let that fly over his head. He didn’t have any problems with a woman being in charge, and if he did, he sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing his concerns with the likes of Stroger.

  “She’s tougher than she looks. Not sure you are, though.” He shoved his former teammate and skated away. “Let’s see who’s cryin’ at the end of the third.”

  Less than two minutes into the first period, it was as clear as the Plexi walling the rink that Stroger was on a mission to pound Remy ten feet below the ice. Tough checks were expected. This was the most physical of pro sports, not even pansy-assed football with its extravagant padding and constant stop-and-go could compete. But Stroger was acting like someone had a bounty out on Remy and dead was worth twice as much as alive.

  Ten minutes gone, Callaghan had possession and was working his way down the ice. The Rebels’ right-winger was a beast when he was in the zone, great at cutting angles and sliding into scoring position. Tonight he was on fire, had already bagged a goal that slid under the tender’s body as easy as honey. Now he was on the break again and Remy was wide open because for the barest second, Stroger was not magnetized to his ass.

  Remy was about to call for it, then realized he didn’t have to because he and Callaghan had suddenly reached that point, that magical moment when words were more likely to hinder than help. Where the connection between two players was so damn fluid the pass was already done before it even happened.

  The puck was on his stick and he was twenty feet from the Cougars’ goal. Fifteen. Ten . . .

  Stroger was coming for him, his eyes like burning holes behind his mask, and then—fuck, he slammed Remy right against the boards, making no effort to play the puck whatsoever.

  Beyond provoked, Remy pushed back, and apparently that was all the encouragement Stroger needed to get Remy in a headlock and lift him two feet off the ice and into the Plexi. His fist connected with Remy’s chin and something crunched.

  Stroger was on him, his mask almost interlocking with Remy’s, his breath labored with hate.

  “Word of advice, Jinx. Show her who’s boss, early and often.” Slam.

  What the fuck? Awakened from the fugue state he seemed to be drowning in, Remy finally managed to push Stroger off and down on the ice. Then he pulled back, ready to lay the fist of New Orleans on him.

  “What’s your problem, asshole?”

  Stroger spat, but the loogie didn’t get past his mask, just hung there from the shield. Connard couldn’t even do that right.

  The zebras pulled them apart, and Remy’s one consolation was that Stroger’s stretch in the sin bin and the resulting power play gave them the goal they’d take as a
dvantage to the end.

  Game Rebels.

  EIGHT

  After close to twenty years of regular commuting by plane, Remy still hadn’t figured out how to fall asleep on one. All around him on the chartered flight, the rest of the team snoozed soundly, except for St. James five rows ahead. The guy had growled at anyone who came near him, covered his ears with headphones, and lost himself in the beat of something loud, violent, and possibly composed with the death of puppies in mind. Remy had to admire the guy. Piecing your life together after rehab and doing it under the full glare of the press and your team was something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. Remy liked to think that if he was in that position, he’d also keep his head down and bury himself in work. St. James had played well tonight. They all had.

  A win on the road at last.

  Remy wasn’t used to acting like a win was the best thing to ever happen to him. Sure, a win was better than a kick to the head, but his whole life was about winning. Yet while tonight’s victory felt good, especially with the bonus of seeing Stroger in that penalty box, funny how it didn’t feel half as good as the two goals he’d clawed back in Philly two weeks ago. They’d lost that game, but those goals had meant something.

  They were the first steps on his road to the Cup and his exit off the Rebels’ roster.

  He turned back to the worn paperback in his hand. Not his usual diet, but he’d promised his niece Sophie he’d do a read-along. With her parents in the middle of a contentious divorce, he’d been checking in more frequently. The book was about five sisters who needed to get hitched and a bunch of crazy rules about who could talk to whom and in what order. Sophie had to read it for AP English, and while he’d die before admitting it to anyone, it was better than he expected. Slyly funny, despite the main dude being a complete ass, insulting everyone left and right. A real catch.

  A shadow darkened his peripheral vision. Now, wasn’t that nice. Just the lady he wanted to play hide the puck with.

  “You’re reading Pride and Prejudice?”

  The surprise in Harper’s voice should have been an insult, but he couldn’t blame her.

  “Well, I was grabbing some reading material on my way out yesterday morning and accidentally picked this up instead of my copy of Hustler.”

  “Would’ve thought you’d be more a Juggs kind of guy.”

  “That’s my other subscription.”

  Her mouth quirked, but in a flash, it was gone. He looked around. Anyone, anyone? Surely someone could corroborate that Harper grin sighting, but alas, he was alone in this.

  He took a good ol’ gander at her, unsurprised that even now she was impeccably dressed in a sleeveless dark pink dress that matched her glossy lips and high-heeled gray boots with cut-outs showing pink-varnished toenails. Sexy as hell. He’d venture to say travel-casual was not in this woman’s vocabulary. The tightly coiled image she presented turned him on and pissed him off in equal measure. He tried to imagine her unspooling. Overindulging in dessert, shimmying on a dance floor, losing herself in bed.

  Screaming out his name when she came.

  His cock stiffened at the notion of drawing this woman’s inner vixen to the surface, provided that there was anything to draw.

  “So what’s the deal, DuPre?” She waved at the book in his hand. “Is this some elaborate ruse to conquer the nonstripper demographic? Did one of your ex-­girlfriends say you weren’t sensitive enough?”

  “Just a poor boy tryin’ to better myself.” He laid his accent on brick-thick. “Figured I’d start with this fascinatin’ insight into the female brain. Did you know that accordin’ to this, all women wanna do is get married?”

  Another twitch of those pouty pink lips. Her Majesty was amused. “Not all women. Back when that was written, females didn’t have much control over their own financial futures. Things have changed, and now we don’t need to rely on a man for a single thing.”

  She emphasized those last three words, probably so he wouldn’t make some dig about the reasons why a woman might need a man. Like that could stop him.

  “What do you ladies call it? The battery-operated boyfriend? There’s only so much BOB can do for you.”

  “At least it doesn’t talk back.”

  “Oh, you like your men quiet. Noted.” Like the lawyer, he supposed. They probably fucked each other like very respectful mice. Was that okay, dahling? Yes, Kenneth, that was perfectly pleasant.

  Best not to think about that because, one, he didn’t much enjoy thinking about people he knew having sex, and, two, he especially didn’t enjoy thinking about Harper having sex. Or, having sex with anyone who wasn’t him, which was crazy cakes, as his niece Sophie would say.

  “I like them doing what I pay them to do.”

  “Hell, Harper, when you get snippy about something you sure don’t let up. I said I’d play my heart out for you—”

  “After you blackmailed me.”

  “After I negotiated the terms of my departure.” He lowered his voice. “Now I know you don’t wanna talk about this right here.”

  She leaned in at his soft tone, a proven strategy to get a woman within kissing distance. Not that he wanted to kiss her.

  Remy, you wanna bang this pretty lady without laying lips on her? Now, that ain’t nice.

  Okay, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so badly the only thing keeping him from doing it was the damn seat belt strapped across his hips. He glanced down. No seat belt.

  Shit.

  Looking up, he found something close to concern in her eyes. “How are you? After your run-in with . . . Stroger?”

  That hesitancy before she said Stroger’s name set off a four-alarm in his head. His best guess? Ms. Chase didn’t quite have the stomach for the violence inherent in the game.

  He rubbed his jaw where Stroger had gotten him good and pondered how he’d allowed a punk like that to get the jump on him. Gettin’ old, DuPre. Remy supposed that could be it, but bad blood between them notwithstanding, there was still the fact that Stroger had come at him all night with no provocation whatsoever.

  “I’m all right. Just boys bein’ boys.”

  Her look pronounced that to be bullshit, so he tried again.

  “Billy and I weren’t exactly bosom buddies when we played on the same side.”

  “That right?”

  “He’s one mean fils de putain—that’s Cajun for ­sonovabitch—and while I could put up with that if he had a streak of decency in him on occasion, he’s never shown any evidence that he’s worth my time. Kind of guy who aims at puddles and pisses in front of you in the team shower, y’know? One day I came across him hazing a rookie, making him down hot sauce until he puked. Not sure what set him off tonight, though.”

  She bit down on her lip, a supercute lip snag that got him more than a little hot and bothered. Jesus, he had seen women looking nervous before and it hadn’t turned him on faster than a lamp. So why did the sight of Harper Chase running her orthodontist-bought teeth along her plump bottom lip, and leaving that same lip looking wet and luscious and ready for his mouth to taste—

  Where was I again?

  Oh yeah. Why would this relatively common sight get him hotter than a short-order cook in a Lafayette diner in July? Looking to divert his brain and other interested parts of his anatomy away from how she was making him positively swoon (fucking Pride and Prejudice), he went on the offensive.

  “Got somethin’ to say, Harper?”

  There it was again, another lip bite. Another nervous dart of her tongue. What the hell was going on here?

  “Do you mind if we . . . ?” She gestured toward the galley behind them.

  He stood and followed her, not trying all that hard to ignore the switch of those trim little hips and that cute little ass in that tight little skirt. Hadn’t he already decided she was too skinny for him? Yes, he had. Yet someho
w his cock had gone rogue and was staging a coup to overthrow the governing faction.

  He passed Burnett, snoring his head off and sounding like a damn buzz saw. Jorgenson had his mouth dropped open, a touch of drool dripping from the corner. The youngsters had done well tonight. They deserved their rest.

  Back in the relative privacy of the galley area, Harper reached for a bottle of Dewar’s and splashed a couple of fingers into a glass. He could have sworn her hand shook a little.

  She didn’t drink, but she was definitely working up to saying something. Seconds passed, then close to a minute. He leaned in, a move he usually used to get answers from his sisters or nieces. It rarely worked because he was pretty much whipped when it came to his female relatives, but he was confident that one day he might strike gold with this particular strategy.

  “Harper?”

  Still nothing. Instinctively, he cupped her upper arms. She trembled under his touch, and that just made him grip harder and pull her closer.

  “Minou, you’re scarin’ me.”

  Those green eyes seemed to implore him. Soothe her. Keep her warm. Make it better. Unbidden, one of his hands coasted up to the beautiful rounded shoulder he’d brushed his lips over a couple of nights ago.

  Stop me, Harper. He curled a hand around her neck and noted with satisfaction how she seemed to relax into his touch.

  Shut me down, baby. Holding her at the nape, he let his thumb wander to her jaw. Was it his imagination or did she fold into him ever so slightly?

  “Tell me what’s goin’ on.” Really, he meant why she’d invited him back here for the private tête-à-tête, but her breathing had picked up, and her moist lips were parted, and it was all he could do not to push her to her knees and demand she put that tart mouth to better use.