Face Off: Emile (Nashville Sound Book 1)

by Alicia Hunter Pace

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. But it bears considering.”

  He smiled. “Then we will consider. When I return.”

  “We will consider.” And maybe I will be able to speak a few words of French to you.

  He picked up his luggage and began to walk away.

  “Emile?”

  “Oui, ma chérie?”

  “Have you really watched that boy play?”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps. Probably. I do like to watch the young ones practice. But not to know who he was, non. But I will.”

  She watched him go. Such a good man.

  Maybe that was the first point to consider.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Emile stripped off his jacket and tie as he entered his hotel room in L.A. The trip from Anaheim had been a short one, but it was late and he was still on Tennessee time, so it felt like two hours later.

  The 3-2 win over the Ducks hadn’t come easy, and tomorrow night wouldn’t be any better. The Kings had lost two or their first three games, and they were hungry for blood—Stanley Cup-winning blood on home ice. Emile understood that only too well. He’d been there and would be again. But everything had a place. He’d consider that and consider it hard. That was mandatory for mental preparation.

  But first he would consider this Snow business one more time.

  Looking at this from one view, it was all rather pointless. Emile could replace everything Amy owned with a few swipes of his credit card and never miss a dime. But that wasn’t going to happen. She’d insisted on giving him a five-dollar bill and some pennies for an eyelash curler that had accidently gotten rung up with the groceries she’d bought with his credit card. He was surprised she didn’t calculate what she ate and try to pay him for that. Ridiculous—but admirable, too. Which made him all the more determined to restore her belongings.

  Plus, Christmas wasn’t far off. The next time he wanted Amy to go to a party, he wanted her to have something to wear.

  On the long flight from Nashville to Anaheim, he’d come up with a good plan, but he needed to go over it one more time in his mind. Once he was sure he had missed nothing, he’d put it away and fully dedicate his mind to hockey and the game tomorrow night—or later today as it were.

  Emile knew his limitations—always had. As a kid, he’d learned early on that he had little talent for putting the puck in the goal. But he could stop that same puck from entering the net—oh, yes he could.

  He wished it were different, and he had thought about it from every angle, but he’d had to face that he would not be able to get Amy’s money back. That pained him; returning home the complete hero would have been sweet, but getting her possessions back was going to have to be enough. Partial heroism was better than none.

  He’d considered many vehicles for achieving his purpose—bribery, threat of bodily harm, and appealing to Snow’s sense of fair play, if he had any. But in the end, Emile knew it had to be bluffing and blackmail—bluffing because he had to threaten to go public with what Snow had done, and Emile wouldn’t do that. Though he believed that the baby would be better off with no father than one like Cameron, Amy had been adamant on that point. And maybe she was right. She’d said Snow had never hit her, and like Sports Illustrated, Amy didn’t lie. So at least, the child would probably be safe from physical harm.

  One could argue that Amy had also been adamant that Emile not interfere, but he was sure if he could accomplish this without Snow’s new wife and in-laws learning the truth, she’d be fine with it—happy even, happy enough to take that into account when she was “considering.”

  But here was the thing with bluffing—the person being bluffed could never be sure if the bluffer would carry though on the threats, so there was only so much Snow would be willing to give up on a maybe. Emile figured that Snow would be glad enough to send back Amy’s little bullet books, sparkly pants, and the panties she had been so concerned over. After all, what would he do with them? Emile was more than sure the only reason he’d taken those things in the first place was because he’d had to get out of the condo without calling attention to the fact that he was abandoning Amy. He only hoped Snow hadn’t dumped the little things in a landfill somewhere.

  But that was all he would be able to get away with. A few boxes of clothes and such were one thing. Five million dollars was another. Snow would be more willing to risk the blackmail for the money and would immediately plan a preemptive strike.

  In short, Emile had to be perceived as a pest, not a true threat to anything that mattered.

  Which brought him to the question Snow would ask himself if he had any brain cells at all: why would Emile demand Amy’s things and not the money? That was sticky, but Emile had decided to just pretend he didn’t know about the money. He simply wouldn’t bring it up, and Snow certainly wouldn’t. The way Emile saw it, he had two major things going for him: (1) Snow would be completely blindsided, and (2) Snow had no idea Emile had any connection with Amy.

  There. He was prepared for Snow the best he could be.

  Now, he needed to switch gears and get ready for the Kings, and that would start with sleep. He stripped to his boxers, got into bed, and reached for his phone to set the alarm.

  It was late, later still in Nashville. But he had not spoken to Amy since leaving yesterday, since she’d said she would “consider.” He would wake her, but he couldn’t stop himself, didn’t even try.

  Her phone rang only twice before she answered.

  “Hello.” Her voice was so sweetly sleepy.

  “Bonjour, chérie. Are you sleeping in my bed?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Bien. I like picturing you there.”

  “Why are you awake? You have a game tomorrow night.”

  “I am awake, waking you.”

  “I noticed.” She lowered her voice. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Were I there, I would have woken you in a different way—a much more pleasant way.”

  “Would you now?” She laughed.

  “Would you like me to tell you about it?”

  She was quiet for a beat. “Yes. I think I would. But in English, please.”

  He turned the light off, lay back against the pillow, and did just that.

  • • •

  “It was fun to watch the game together last night. I’m glad we’re going to do it again.” Gabriella brought in the tray of guacamole, pimento cheese sandwiches, and hot artichoke dip that they intended to make a meal of. “Thank you for making all this lovely food.”

  “It’s been fun having you here and eating party food for meals. I might dream for the rest of my life about those chocolate croissants you made for breakfast this morning.” Amy brought in a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Gabriella had dropped by yesterday afternoon to pick up a coat she’d left. They had started talking, and she’d been here ever since. One of the things they had talked about was what had happened with Cameron. While she hadn’t pushed Amy, Gabriella had opened the subject, and Amy had found herself telling her the whole sordid mess. Gabriella had a way of directing the conversation the way that she wanted it to go.

  But she was a good listener. While Amy had told the story, Gabriella had simply listened, nodded now and then, but had never interrupted.

  “Good,” she’d said when Amy had finished. “It is good when women are rid of bad men.”

  “Your reaction is very different from Emile’s.”

  “Of course. Emile and I are very different. I am sure he wanted to fix everything. I recognize that some things can’t be fixed, but I try to look at the positives. This Cameron is the lowest of lowlifes—a cunning thief who plotted to do what he wanted without so much as having the decency to face you. He is not worth anyone’s anger. And what he took from you was wrong, but you must look at what he didn’t take—your skills, your intelligence, your work ethic, your good heart.”

  Amy wasn’t sure she deserved Gabriella’s high prais
e or, considering the short time they’d known each other, if her opinion was even valid, but it had felt good.

  Amy turned the television on to the hockey channel. “Ten minutes until time.”

  Gabriella took a bite of artichoke dip. “This might be the best thing I have ever eaten. Is your recipe a secret?”

  Amy laughed. “That recipe has been in every Southern church and community fundraising cookbook published in the last thirty years. I’ll write it down for you.”

  “There is a reason things become popular. When Christmas comes, we will make saffron buns together.”

  Christmas. At no time had she envisioned being here at Christmas, though she hadn’t thought about where she would be. Her family would expect her home for Christmas—Thanksgiving, too. Surely by then, she would have gotten the courage to tell them what had happened. But she had told Emile they would “consider,” whatever that meant.

  “Saffron buns were the first thing Johanna taught me to make when I got my cast off—I had a broken arm when I went to live with them. She and Paul are third generation Swedish Americans, but they have preserved their heritage. The buns are Johanna’s secret recipe, but she won’t mind if I share it with you.”

  And there it was again—Gabriella’s uncanny talent for flitting from one subject to another like a magical fairy kissing the dew from flowers. That she’d had a broken arm was buried under so many other layers that it was not up for discussion. Amy wondered how she’d feel if she knew Emile had told her about their abusive past. But Amy wouldn’t mention it. She would address the thing that Gabriella clearly wanted her to ask about.

  “How do you know Johanna wouldn’t mind my having the recipe? If it’s a secret?”

  “Because you care for Emile.”

  Care for. That was the phrase Emile had used.

  “I work for Emile.”

  Gabriella gave her a knowing look. “I watched you watching my brother play last night. It was good to see. Don’t tell me there’s no attraction. It wasn’t lost on me that you went to his bed to sleep last night, like that’s the bed you always go to.”

  Horrified took on a whole new meaning for Amy. How could she have been so stupid? To have trotted off to Emile’s bed like it was hers? But it hadn’t occurred to her to sleep anywhere else. Besides, she liked the smell of his pillow. But what Gabriella must think of her.

  “I—” She had no idea what to follow that with, so she just closed her mouth.

  Gabriella laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. I know you are not the kind of woman to go to a man’s bed lightly.”

  But wasn’t that exactly what she’d done? Told herself that it was just sex, that she was taking what she wanted because she could? But was that still true, if it ever had been?

  Amy put her hands in the air. “This is so crazy.”

  “Why is it crazy?”

  “To even consider that Emile and I might have—or be headed toward—some kind of relationship. You know what a short time we’ve known each other.”

  Gabriella shook head. “Time means nothing. My mother knew my father—and Emile’s— from the time they were toddlers, all skating on the pond together almost before they could walk. And look what happened there.”

  Amy’s head snapped up. “You know I know?”

  She nodded. “Emile called me this morning and told me he told you.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I know.”

  “I don’t mind. That still doesn’t mean that I want to have any deep heart-to-hearts about what happened. I’m not like Emile. He says refusing to talk about it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. He had a lot of baggage for a long time, but he has moved past it.”

  “How about you? Do you have baggage?” Amy asked tentatively.

  “Ah.” Gabriella smiled. “That would be the beginning of a heart-to-heart. I like you very much—I love you for my brother. But no thank you on the heart-to-heart.”

  “I will respect that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But about this ‘for your brother—’”

  “Do you deny the attraction?”

  “No. I don’t.” Nor could she deny the warm feeling that came over her when he came into the room or gathered her to him to sleep after sex. It had never been like that with Cameron. He had always been reaching for his phone and tablet practically before he finished ejaculating, never mind where she was in the process.

  “Then what does the time matter?”

  “But there’s more than just the time factor. I will never—and I mean never—put myself in a man’s control again. It is insane that I would even consider—” Yet, she was considering it.

  “You should not try to make Emile pay for what Cameron Snow did to you. He would not do such a thing.”

  “I don’t think he would. But he does want his way.”

  “I am probably as well aware of that as anyone on this planet. But that isn’t the same thing as having you in his control. From what I saw about where you sat at that game with the Bruins, you can handle him pretty well—maybe even out-stubborn him, and that is a great feat.”

  She thought of the cell phone he’d bought her, how he’d insisted on going to the bank with her that day, the pass for the WAG suite, and how hard he’d tried to buy her clothes and take her to that birthday party. Wouldn’t there come a time when she would just tell him yes because she was tired of saying no? But at least he’d stayed out of her business concerning Cameron. “I don’t want someone I have to fight so hard to handle.”

  Gabriella poured them glasses of wine. “Good luck with that unless you want no one at all.”

  And that’s exactly what she’d thought she wanted. Why did this have to be so confusing?

  “It’s time,” Gabriella said.

  “Time? We’ve only known each other two weeks.”

  Gabriella shook her head and pointed to the television. “Time.”

  And Amy sat forward, waiting for a glimpse of him. Yes—skating out with his stick held high over his head, around the goal twice clockwise and twice counterclockwise, tapping the posts with this stick.

  And what was that?

  “Did he kiss the crossbar of that goal?”

  Gabriella laughed. “Every game, every period.”

  Lucky goal.

  Apparently, Amy had missed seeing this ritual when she watched before. She concentrated on the television screen, determined not to miss a thing.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Win over the Kings, 4-2. Check.

  Celebrate with the guys on the ice and bench. Check.

  Now if he could exit the ice without a reporter waylaying him. Ah, good. Glaz, Thor, and Swifty already had microphones in their faces. Emile slipped on by without any problem. Small wonder. They were the stars tonight.

  Now for the next matter on the list.

  It had never crossed his mind that Snow would fail to show up, and there he was—standing behind a security guard in a Staples Center uniform. Baise-moi. The bâtard was wearing a Sound sweater.

  Emile shed a glove, took his helmet off, and put it under his arm. He was careful to address the guard first.

  “Many, many thanks for all you do. But it is all right. He’s here to see me.”

  Emile gave him his best smile and extended his hand for Snow to shake. He would have resented the gesture if not for the stench of his hands. A hockey player’s gloves stunk like no other part of his equipment, and that was saying a lot. Snow would have a souvenir of this meeting for days.

  Just then, something happened that Emile had not anticipated but should have—Packi stopped in front of him. He frowned and barely shook his head, as if in disbelief. Emile caught his breath and waited for Packi to speak, but when he did, he only said, “Here you go,” and handed Emile a water bottle and towel, took his helmet, gloves, and stick, and headed toward the locker room.

  Emile drank deeply from the bottle and slung the towel around his neck. “Great game! Brilliant saves!” Emile hated
Snow all the more for saying that. His performance had been solid tonight, but not great and certainly not brilliant. No crazy, reason-defying saves. As for the Kings’s goals—the best parts of Dominik Hesek and Patrick Roy combined could have done nothing about one of the pucks that got past him. The other, he should have stopped. He’d work on that.

  “Let’s step to the side.” Emile moved against the wall, but though he was exhausted, he was careful not lean on it. Snow had a leather messenger bag over his shoulder, no doubt containing a contract with a big red X where he was supposed to sign. There would be a pen, too. At least he had better sense than to wave the contract around first thing.

  But Snow did want to get down to business. “I know you need to cool down and hydrate. Do you have any questions for me?”

  Determined to look relaxed and happy, Emile smiled and nodded. “Oui. Do you still have Amy’s personal possessions?”

  Emile had never seen a face go from giddy-smug to utter shock so quickly. When Snow’s head whipped around, Emile noted that his hair was getting thin on top. Emile brushed his own full locks off his forehead.

  “Wh-What? What did you say?”

  Emile leaned in and said very carefully, “Do you still have Amy’s material belongings? For your sake, I hope you have not disposed of them, because you are going to send them back to her.” He was no longer smiling.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know any Amy. I certainly don’t have her things.”

  Emile laughed. “I was right. I thought that was the tack you would take. Had Amy gone public, I’m sure that’s what you intended to tell Reynolds Fallon and all his family, including your new wife. It might have worked on them, but don’t waste my time. As you say, I must cool down, hydrate, and get on a plane. I have no interest in ruining your marriage or your life. I have no interest in you at all. But you will send Amy’s personal possessions back to her, or I will call your brother-in-law and tell all. He may not believe me at first, but he will look into it, and you will not survive the scrutiny.”