Irresistible You

by Kate Meader

  “I’m looking at Brad Hogan. Rumor has it he’s not too happy in Tampa.”

  “Who is? Place is a swamp.”

  “Says the man who was born in one.”

  He grinned, a heartbreaking curve of his lips that was like a stun gun to her brain. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed that smile until her body lit up in its presence.

  “Louisiana is a swamp, but it’s a swamp with culture. So who else is on your list?”

  She shouldn’t really be discussing it, but bouncing ideas off him seemed like a good use of those years around the block. Also, if they talked about business, she wouldn’t be tempted to talk about why they weren’t kissing or touching or . . .

  Okay. She named a few players, and he offered honest and forthright opinions, most of which she agreed with.

  “I’ve got a player for you.” He was still leaning against her desk, his most excellent ass quite at home on her father’s antique mahogany. “Vadim Petrov.”

  She frowned. “Out of Quebec? He’s been benched more times than not this season.”

  “Yeah, he had a knee injury last year, but when he’s on, there’s no stopping him. Can totally clean up.”

  “He spent a summer training with the Rebels before he played for the Kontinental League about eight years ago. A lot of talent, but he plays on the right.”

  “Quebec doesn’t know how to use him. He’s so versatile that they keep moving him around on the line, but he’s born to be a left-winger. All his power is off that side.” He cast a glance at her laptop. “You got any tape?”

  She returned an eyebrow arch at the stupidity of that question. Sixty seconds later, she opened her folder on Petrov, subfolder Power Plays, and chose a file from a game the big Russian had played against the Rebels last season.

  That hitch on Remy’s lips told her he was impressed. He pulled up a chair while the video opened, and there was that sizzle again. Proximity to this man was turning out to be a major problem.

  Remy leaned in, his expression intent. “See how he’s playing on the right—”

  “He’s right-handed, so that’s his natural side.”

  “Sure, but his natural side is really his off side.”

  Harper thought on that. Most players preferred to receive the puck on their forehand. It was more innate, but there were always some who didn’t fit that mold. She racked her brain.

  “That early-season game against Boston last year. He played on the left side then—”

  “And scored two goals that night.” Remy looked rueful at the memory. “Quebec beat us 4–1. I think he’d work well with Callaghan and St. James.”

  “I’ll talk to Coach about it.” She felt warm inside, whether it was from her sated hunger or the company, she wasn’t sure. More likely it was the ease of this discussion. No tension, no pressure, just a mutually respectful conversation about the work she loved.

  “How are you and Bren getting along?”

  Remy leaned back in the chair, those big orgasm-producing hands laced behind his neck, a pose that drew her attention to his Henley stretched tight over stunning pectoral muscles. “How are we supposed to be getting along, boss?”

  This man, so astute. “Nothing like a little healthy competition. I gave him a chance. Now I want to see him earn it.”

  “By letting him think his captaincy might be ripped from him at any minute?” He shook his head in ­admiration. “Your daddy sure did underestimate you, Harper.”

  He wasn’t the only one. She’d ensure it never happened again.

  “He didn’t suffer fools, that’s for sure.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Great center, decent coach, so-so businessman.”

  She smiled at that accurate assessment. “So you weren’t a fan?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” He took a deep breath, his expression softening. “In fact, your dad’s the reason I started playing hockey.”

  She perked up. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. How else was a swamp kid like me gonna come to it? It’s not exactly popular down south. At least, it wasn’t twenty-five years ago.”

  Already enthralled, she urged him to share. “Tell me.”

  “When I was eight, my family moved from Acadiana to New Orleans after my mom landed a job as a musicology professor at Tulane, but I wasn’t having any of that. I hated the city. I missed home. Missed it so much that I kept running away back to it and my poppa kept chasing me down.”

  She giggled. “Bet you were a terror.”

  “Sure was. Made their lives hell. So one day, I wasn’t running back home—must’ve been tired—and I was watching TV when hockey came on. It was a finals game between Chicago and Montreal, and your father played a barn burner. There was nothing he couldn’t do on the ice. I was hooked and I begged Poppa to find me a way to play. Turned out there was a squirt league over in the Ninth Parish and c’est l’histoire.”

  “My father inspired you?”

  “Cliff Chase inspired many a young player, Harper. Maybe he wasn’t the best human being, but he was a legend on the rink.” He tilted his head. “I met him once, y’know, much later after he’d taken over the Rebels. It was about ten years ago and I was with the—”

  “Calgary Saints.”

  He smiled, pleased she had that fact so close at hand. “Right. We played a game here, and I remember it so well. Every pass, every play, the crowd singin’ their hearts out. What was that song they used to play during the warm-up to every Rebels game?”

  “ ‘Wonderwall,’ ” Harper said. She’d forgotten about that, the team’s unofficial anthem when they used to win more than lose.

  “Yeah, ‘Wonderwall.’ After the game, I ran into your father in the tunnel and just had to tell him how he’d started my love of hockey. I was stutterin’ like a woodpecker, ‘Ex-excuse me, Mr. Chase, c-could I have a minute of your t-time?’ ” His robust laugh warmed her inside out. “Well, that night the Saints had beaten the Rebels, with yours truly scoring a hat trick, and Clifford was hella pissed. He told me that if he could go back in time, he’d drown me in a swamp.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Never meet your heroes.”

  Harper couldn’t agree with that. She was starting to think she might have met hers—the man sitting in front of her.

  Moving on. “You played well in Denver,” she said, referring to their recent win on the road, the game she had elected to watch from home. He hadn’t needed her as his muse, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She knew how she was supposed to feel. Thrilled that the team was finally coming together. Under no circumstances should she begrudge her center’s excellent play because she had no part in inspiring it.

  Try telling that to her mouth. “Seems you don’t need to be kept happy after all. Winning tends to be its own inspiration.”

  Elbows on his knees, he inclined his head, assessing her with those knowing blue eyes. Her breath caught at the proximity. He was big and masculine and so, so present.

  “Think I’ve forgotten all you’ve done for me, Harper? I’m letting those memories of our night together fuel every stride on the ice, every pass of the puck, and every shot between the pipes. And when I need to refill the well, I take myself in hand, remembering those sexy sounds you made when I was buried deep in the heart of you.”

  “You shouldn’t say that,” she said halfheartedly as heat rushed to her core.

  “Now, you opened that door. I think you’re annoyed I’ve been so respectful of your wishes.”

  “DuPre—”

  “Remy.”

  “DuPre,” she said sweetly. “What happened in New Orleans was very pleasant . . .”

  He mouthed, Ouch.

  “Okay, more than pleasant. It was good.” So good. “And if you weren’t who you are and I wasn’t who I am, then maybe we could do it again.”

  “S
eeing as how it was so pleasant and all.”

  “I said it was good!”

  His grin was as wicked as they come. “You did. My mistake. So the only thing holding you back from a repeat is the employer-employee situation?”

  Goddamn him, she’d walked into that. “It’s not exactly surmountable.”

  “In a few weeks, I won’t be your employee anymore.”

  She didn’t want to think about that. Not just that she would have lost this important part of the team, but also because she liked having him around. He made a mean muffuletta.

  “So all we’ve got against us, really, is timing. Listen, Harper, I understand your concerns. You have to pre­sent a certain image to the world. All eyes are on the Rebels and you, of all Cliff’s daughters, are the face of the team business. I get that. I totally respect that. But that doesn’t change the fact I want to throw you over this desk and fuck you until you scream my name, forget your own, and come so many times you practically pass out.”

  Good thing she was sitting down, because her whole body shook with those words.

  Denial was on the tip of her tongue, starting with how she didn’t want him that much (lie) to his words were inappropriate (truth). Instead she countered with the incredibly witty, “You made me a sandwich.”

  He grinned, that rogue’s smile she remembered from steamy NOLA as he ravished her body with assurance and a slowness that killed her. “Can’t be having you running your empire on an empty stomach.”

  He understood what she was going through. He respected what she was trying to do here. His honesty smashed through her, and she owed him the same, even if nothing could come of it.

  “You know I want you, Remy. It’s just—” She couldn’t finish because it was too depressing.

  “I know, minou.” He leaned in, and with the slightest brush, touched his lips to her forehead. “Now pack up your reports and let me walk you to your car. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Two weeks later, Remy pushed through the doors of the Empty Net, the local bar that stood halfway between the arena and his apartment. He liked this place. He liked how it had the feel of a regular sports bar, but the team could chill and not be forced to fend off über fans, assholes critiquing every play, and women with an eye to getting laid by a professional athlete. Not that Remy would be wholly opposed to that latter option, but he also knew that shitting on his own doorstep would come back to bite him.

  Kind of like with Harper. Gorgeous, off-limits, crazy-sexy Harper was resisting him with a lot more fortitude than he’d expected. Good thing one of them was making sense.

  His game—and the team—had started to gel on the ice after New Orleans. He’d taken the sound of her voice, the memory of her skin, and the imprint of her body gripping him deep into every battle since. He was playing like a god, and they’d won four of their last five.

  Coincidence? Mais non.

  As he approached Callaghan, Jorgenson, and Burnett at the corner table, he heard this from the Swede: “The coconut would win. No contest.”

  “Do I want to know?” Remy asked Ford.

  “These two”—he thumbed at Tweedledee and ­Tweedledum—“are arguing over which fruit would win in a fight.”

  “Assuming they were sentient,” Burnett clarified before turning back to Jorgenson. “A dragon fruit would win, dude. It’s got ‘dragon’ in the fucking name.”

  Jorgenson shook his head. “The coconut is the armored tank of fruits. It can fall out of trees and kill people even when it is not sentient.”

  Remy suspected he was going to regret this. “Pineapples, mes enfants. Spiky skin, hard as fuck, total badass. They’ve also got an enzyme that breaks down meat. If they’re not winning one way, they’re attacking through the back door.”

  The boys stared at him for at least ten seconds. Finally Jorgenson spoke. “This changes everything.”

  His work done, Remy headed to the bar and ordered a Sam Adams just as Violet Vasquez walked in and joined the group. Remy was having a tough time getting a bead on that girl. One minute she was the wild child, life of the party, the next she was looking like she’d had a shitstorm journey just to make it to the present day. He also suspected that Harper would not approve of her sister hanging with the players, because that sounded like a rule the Dragon Lady would make. No fraternizing.

  A rule that Harper had broken with joyous abandon in Remy’s bed, but had pledged herself to anew. He should have known one night wouldn’t be enough with her, but he’d taken his shot, sunk the puck, and now was looking at being benched for the rest of the season. He didn’t like the idea of warming the pine where Harper was concerned. He wanted in her, wanted the heat her body would give him. The taboo was a kick, but that wasn’t just it. Harper excited him like no other woman. Period. She was smart and sexy and driven, and that combination turned him on big time.

  However, she was also smart enough to know a hot fling with him was bad news for her. He was trying to respect her boundaries, the walls she’d built to keep him out. He wanted to take a sledgehammer to them, which was pretty selfish of him.

  Stay away, DuPre. Don’t fuck with her life.

  St. James bookended the bar, giving off that morose force field he rocked so well, only his attention wasn’t quite so glued to his phone as usual. Every few seconds, he’d throw sneaky glances toward the corner table group, then return to his phone with a storm-clouded frown.

  Violet’s shout of “What about bananas?” pierced the air, and Bren raised his head like he was scenting prey. Nothing furtive about it now. The man gave new meaning to the phrase “dirty look” as he glared at Violet.

  Those Chase girls were nothing but trouble.

  About to head down to Bren and ask him to join the woe-is-me party, he stopped short when he felt the vibration of his phone. Unreasonable joy flared in his chest at the sight of a kitten pic he’d found online to attach to the contacts entry for “Minou.”

  Minou: I could so kick Katniss’s ass.

  He smiled at the answer to tonight’s burning Would You Rather? question: Would you rather get chosen for the Hunger Games or for the Triwizard Tournament?

  Remy: That president dude must be quaking.

  Minou: Speaking of ass whuppin’, you skimped on the peppers again, DuPre.

  He smiled, then shut it down because it would look suspicious.

  Remy: Spicy costs extra.

  Minou: Sorry, I don’t carry cash. I’m far too important.

  Remy: We accept all forms of payment.

  Kisses, stripteases, hand jobs . . .

  He blew out a breath to calm his racing pulse and rising dick. For the last two weeks, on each night there wasn’t a game, Remy had food delivered to Harper’s office, courtesy of a couple of Jacksons dropped on one of the bartenders at the Empty Net. Chez Remy’s take-out menu consisted of gumbo, shrimp creole, and jerk chicken and rice.

  He could have delivered it himself but (a) that would raise questions in the Rebels’ front office and (b) he would have likely knocked, waited for her haughty come in, and then turned his porno fantasies into delicious, dirty reality.

  Delivery, Ms. Chase.

  Oh, hello. You’re new . . . exactly how hot is the jambalaya tonight?

  Before she could lick those plump, glossy lips, he’d have jumped clear across the desk and ripped off that sexy little skirt and see-through blouse she liked to taunt him with when she walked in before the game to wish them all luck.

  So he had a snowball’s chance in the bayou with her. At least he could make sure she was eating right. He looked down at his phone, worried that maybe he’d scared her off with his innuendo. The little dots appeared, signaling that she was composing a message.

  . . . typing . . . typing . . .

  “What up, Big Easy?”

  Violet leaned on the ba
r, a smartass grin breaking her face in half. She wore a black minidress, a red cable-knit sweater, thigh-high argyle socks, and Converse. The only thing the Chase daughters seemed to have in common were those big green eyes hiding hurt, secrets, and indomitable will. It took a brave woman to handle being thrown into the lion’s den, forced to navigate the worlds of pro hockey and dysfunctional family dynamics.

  “Violet.” Harper’s name wasn’t on his screen, but he still tilted the phone away from prying eyes. “How you doin’ this evening?”

  “Just fine, Mon-soor DuPre.” She delivered a mock bow. “Can I give you a word of advice?”

  “You’re gonna give it anyway, I suspect.”

  She finger-pistoled her agreement. “I see how she acts around you. You make her nervous and, for Harper, that’s a good thing. She needs to have her world shook up, y’know?”

  Not much point pretending ignorance, and frankly, the secrecy was killing him. “You don’t think her world’s been shook up plenty these last few months?”

  An old-soul wisdom haunted her eyes. “That’s nothing. Right now, she thinks she has it all under control, but the reality is that you need to come close to losing everything to realize what’s important. Capisce?”

  He wondered what she’d weathered to reach that conclusion. For Remy, coming so close to losing his dad had refocused his game. No more maybe someday. No more screwing around, because someday was now.

  Violet patted his arm, and Remy felt the frost of St. James’s displeasure burning holes in his head. Just add it to the tab, Highlander. His phone buzzed, and Violet smirked again as she swayed off. Remy checked the latest incoming message.

  Minou: Get some sleep, DuPre. We need you tomorrow.

  The team. Always the team.

  He threw down a ten on the bar, gave a wry salute to Bren, and headed over to the guys who needed him to skate his heart out tomorrow night.

  Harper smiled at her phone. Thank God no one was in the office to see her acting like a lovesick loon. She wished Remy had made the special delivery himself, but they both knew where that would lead.