by Kate Meader
She pivoted, a can of lemon LaCroix in her hand, and kicked the door shut with her foot. “So, I took a rummage through your closet, Scot.”
“What?”
“Remember the bachelor auction at the Hockey for Everyone fund-raiser a few weeks ago?”
He did. He also remembered that she had joked about placing a bid on him. But he’d been in no mood to be viewed as a piece of man meat—his no-dating rules applied equally to charity stunts—so he’d not volunteered for the block. Instead, she’d bought a date with Erik Jorgenson, their Swedish goalie. In all the craziness of the past two weeks, he’d forgotten that.
Instead of asking if they’d gone on this date already, he went with: “What’s the auction got to do with you ransacking my private property?”
“I was looking for a kilt. Did you think that not making yourself available for the bachelor auction—for a children’s hockey charity, Mr. Scrooge—would get you out of our bet?”
“What bet?” He knew, but he looked forward to her take on it.
“I bet a hundred bucks I’d see you in a kilt by the end of the season.”
“Season’s over. You lost.”
She leaned over, her perfect tits skimming the granite counter, her gorgeous ass shoved high in the air. Behind the island, the knuckle of his index finger pushed gently against his rock-hard cock, willing it to behave but only making it pulse harder.
“I think we can agree the postseason has extended the bet, Nessie.”
“I don’t own a kilt. This bet is already moot.” He rubbed his beard, not even sure what the bet was exactly. “And my recollection is that I told you I didn’t need the money and I’d think of something in kind.”
“I don’t really need the money, either,” she murmured, and every word held dirty, delicious promise.
Christ. This conversation had veered way out of control.
He fumbled for something innocuous to temper it. “Right, the franchise gets more valuable with every game we win.”
“Sure does. Keep it up so my share of the pie is bigger when I sell it to Harper and Isobel.”
His heart jerked hard against his rib cage. “You’re not going to continue to run the team?”
Her lips curved in amusement. “That’s cute of you to include me in ‘running’ the team, St. James. We all know building team morale doesn’t really count.”
“What’ll you do? Leave Chicago?” It came out scratchy, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Eventually. The will required us to run things together for the season and now it’s almost over.” She leaned in, her green eyes sparkling. “As soon as you boys lose, I’m out of here.”
His pulse skyrocketed—at her closeness, her scent, all that life and spirit she projected. But mostly he suspected it was at the thought that Violet would be gone soon—and every game he won kept her here longer. No pressure, then.
“Did you watch the games?” he asked.
“I did. You guys should be two and oh instead of even in the series.”
This was true. He’d played well in the first game, but then the doubts came creeping in. Things are going so well. How long before you fuck it up, asshole?
“I’m a bit preoccupied, I s’pose.”
Surprise lit up her pretty features, though pretty wasn’t right. Violet was a strikingly attractive woman, with strong bone structure, beautiful red lips, and almond-shaped green eyes that seemed to see right into his dark soul.
“You have a lot on your plate,” she said, unmistakable caution in her voice.
He let the silence sit for a moment, ripen. With a glance toward the hallway, he checked that no one was about to crash the intimate bubble that had somehow been crafted in the last thirty seconds. His girls, in particular, did not need to hear this.
“My in-laws want custody, at least until Kendra gets her act together. And with everything going on, it’s tempting to think they might be better off.”
“Is that what you think? That they’d be better off?”
No. The thought of surrendering his girls to the Gordons made him sick to his stomach.
Quickly, she skirted the island, then placed a hand on his arm. “Fight for them, Bren. Your girls need to know their dad’s in their corner, that he’d do anything to protect and love them.” Her eyes shone at him with unnamed emotion. Her palm on his arm was light, yet weighted with consequence.
The first time they had touched. The first time they’d actually had a real conversation.
“Is that what you wished for? For Clifford to make it right?”
Another shrug. Another slip of the sweater. “At first, but then I found out what he was like. Not good father material, but you . . . you’re different.”
Was he? He’d not been there for them. When he was physically present, he was emotionally absent, preferring the comfort of a bottle. And then there was the night it had all come crashing down. “I haven’t been such a great dad. Done things I’m right ashamed of. Even now, I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She squeezed his arm. “Yes, you do. What you feel for those girls is innate. It can’t be taught. Some men’s only contributions are sperm and money. That’s not you.”
No, it wasn’t. Had Violet had another man in her life to stand in for Clifford? A stepfather or someone who treated her like a princess? Whatever her circumstances, she seemed to have come out of them all right. Bren wanted more than “all right” for his girls, however.
He knew this: he would be there for them, no matter what came barreling at him.
Her hand still lay on his forearm, its gentle grip both soothing and inciting. They stood staring at each other, the significance of the moment lost on neither of them. She broke the connection first by stepping back, releasing him.
“Harper’s going to take care of everything, you know. She’s already got interviews for nannies and housekeepers and tutors set up. You’re golden, Scot.” She picked up her opened can of LaCroix. Was that a slight shake to her hand? “And your daughters? I know they’re young, but girls tend to take change in their stride.”
“Better than boys?”
“Aye.” She drew the single syllable out like a pirate.
He laughed at her use of his own way of affirming things, and she grinned back. He wasn’t prone to happy outbursts. As frustrated as he often felt around Violet, he invariably found himself smiling—then immediately doubting his right to the joy she brought him.
A sound of heels approaching put him on alert. Harper entered, her gaze dipped to a clipboard, her cheeks pale.
“Okay, groceries done, Vi?” On seeing the cleared counter and the closed fridge, she checked off a box on the list, then turned to Bren. “I found someone to come in and clean once a week, at least temporarily while we work on a housekeeper. And I know you’re worried about their schooling. I’m interviewing tutors tomorrow. This agency we’re using comes highly recommended.”
Bren exhaled the breath he’d been holding in forever. Since Violet had stopped touching him, if truth be told.
“I can’t thank you enough. I’ve been out of my mind—well, you probably noticed.”
Harper’s eyebrow scooted up. As a team owner, and the former general manager, she noticed everything, including the unmissable fact that his play in that last game in Dallas had been less than stellar.
“I still need someone to look after them when I’m not around. And I can’t dump that on you indefinitely.”
The doorbell rang and Harper checked her watch. “Right on time. That’s a good sign.”
Bren looked in the direction of the door while Harper headed toward it. “What’s going on?”
Violet winked. “Let the Great Nanny Hunt begin.”
FIVE
Violet coughed loudly and held up her phone. “Ready?”
“Ready!” The enthusiasm was all Isobel. Harper merely grunted, uncaged her feet from her heels, and curled her legs under her body on the sofa in the den at Chase Manor.
“Have you ever practiced kissing in a mirror?” Violet asked.
Harper groaned. “Are these questions designed for eight-year-olds?”
“We are all eight-year-olds in hot-lady bodies. Just answer the question, Harper.”
Usually their awkward sister bonding nights saw more action than this, but these days, Harper got queasy if she went more than a hundred feet beyond the radius of Chase Manor or Rebels HQ. So they were having a quiet night in asking each other embarrassing questions from a list Violet had found on the Internet. Like you do.
When she’d landed on their doorstep eight months ago, Violet had expected the half sisters she barely knew to put up more resistance. Be outright bitches, to be honest. After all, she was the by-blow, Clifford’s sordid secret, who’d appeared conveniently once the old man croaked and millions of dollars were put in play. At first they’d circled each other warily like feral cats, but with each week that passed, with each sisterly get-together they muddled through, the threads between them braided into strings. Violet would never say she was a true Chase, but she could no longer claim not to be, either. One foot in, one foot out.
“Harper,” she prompted.
“Okay, when I was—”
“Twenty-five?”
“Ten. I was skinny and awkward and no boys were interested. But I wanted to be ready when Ben Costigan noticed me.” Harper sighed. “It took two years, and then only because I puked over his shoes during gym.”
Isobel gasped. “I thought you always had guys dropping at your feet!”
“Tales of my tween prowess were greatly exaggerated, probably by me. What about you, Vi? Bet you had tons of boyfriends.”
“Well, the Catholic school uniform is a guaranteed boy magnet, but the retainer and my nickname kind of left me on the outer edges of the cool kids’ circle.”
Harper leaned in, eyes gleaming. “I have to hear this nickname.”
“Assquatch.” She stood and cocked her hip, pointing at her rear. “On account of my most amazing be-hind. I’ve been crafting this baby for years, ladies.”
Everyone laughed their heads off at that, before Isobel blurted, “Surprised you didn’t use it for your boob job!” Immediately, she covered her mouth in horror. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. What a dreadful thing to say.”
Violet held up a hand of insta-forgiveness, not minding that Isobel had put her two feet in it as usual. “No! It’s fine. I could have. The doctor gave me a choice to use tissue from my stomach or ass to reconstruct, but I decided to go the other route with the implants. This booty has been drawing them in like honeybees for so long that I can’t imagine getting rid of it. It was already such a huge change, you know.”
Of course, she’d had a rough time of it after her double mastectomy, her mind reeling with whether the removal of those mounds of tissue that signified to the world her femininity would make her any less of a woman. Getting the implants was a huge help in traversing that hurdle, but it still took her awhile to feel whole again. Womanly. Desirable.
Tattoos were part of her strategy. They drew attention to her well-toned arms and her fabulous thighs. She’d always enjoyed men looking at her, lusting after her, and even if she wasn’t open for business, it still gave her a thrill. Some people would call her a tease, but it was her body and she would celebrate it—its strength, its beauty, its not-deadness—however she liked. But it had taken time to muster the courage to place her new boobs front and center. For months after the surgery, she wore prim, high-necked blouses, baggy turtlenecks, and full-coverage tops that sent wandering eyes away. Not anymore.
She’d survived and she had a nice pair of tits to prove it.
Her sisters nodded, and after a taut moment, Harper spoke up. “Did Clifford know? About your breast cancer?”
Sitting again, Violet felt a sharp stab of pain when she took a shallow breath. “Yeah. I didn’t tell him, but I guess he’d been keeping tabs on me. Offered to pay for stuff but I—I turned him down. When you came out to see me in Reno just after I was diagnosed, Harper, it was a tough time. I know I wasn’t all that welcoming.” She’d been downright rude, actually.
“Are you kidding?” Harper waved her hand. “There I was trying to fix years of Dad’s fuck-ups with a getting-to-know-you sister lunch. It’s a wonder you didn’t punch me in the throat.”
Isobel smiled serenely. “We’ve all wanted to punch you in the throat at some time or other, dearest Harper. Let’s face it, you’re no picnic.” She turned to Violet. “Dad owed you, and you should never doubt that. Sure, we know you have plans once the season is over, but you don’t have to scoot off as soon as the last game’s buzzer sounds. There’s always a place for you.”
Violet swallowed around the lump the size of a puck in her throat. She loved how they’d gone to such efforts to include her despite the fact she knew zilch about hockey or their world. About being a Chase. Guilt pinged her. Would they be so accommodating if they knew how her mother had gone out of her way to target a rich Hall of Famer and get him wriggling on a hook?
Harper sighed at Violet. “I’m going to miss you so much.”
Violet’s guilt gave way to warmth at the sentiment. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.”
“I was talking to the wine in your hand.” With a wink to say she was half joking, Harper gazed dispiritedly at her glass of soda water with lime. “Seven months of this. Complete. Hell. But at least I have Remy, who’ll be cooking for me constantly and making sure the baby’s jonesing for jambalaya the minute she exits Hotel Utero. I can’t imagine doing this pregnancy business and child raising alone. Bren must be freaking out.” She chuckled. “You should have seen his face today. This woman was interviewing for a job looking after children but she was dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.”
“Maybe she got confused about which sport he plays,” Isobel answered between a sip of her wine and dashing off what Violet assumed was a quick sext to her boyfriend, Vadim Petrov, the Rebels’ front-line left-winger.
“He should have no problems once all the help is in place,” Violet muttered. All the female help. She hadn’t sat in on the interviews, but she’d witnessed the parade of candidates. Besides the scantily clad cheerleader, there was a pretty college grad with an early childhood education degree and another woman (also pretty) in a skintight Rebels T-shirt. Talk about obvious.
Her pulse picked up, remembering their intimate conversation in the kitchen this morning. Bren St. James hadn’t looked at her directly since the day they’d met in the Empty Net. The day he dodged a bar fight and she found out that she owned the Rebels hockey team. That she owned him.
Since then, she’d gotten a kick out of turning his crank. He’d always acted like she was an annoying pest, but she would often catch him out of the corner of her eye, puzzling her out. Like some ghost figure, his own sneaky gaze would slide away when directly challenged.
But not today. Today in his kitchen, she’d felt the full weight of his attention, and she wondered how she had lived without it for so long. Today they had put aside the scowls and taunts, and cracked open their respective armor plates to let each other in a little. It was exhilarating. Hearing him talk about wanting to do right by his girls had both scratched and soothed a private spot inside her.
Ah, daddy issues. The best.
“Maybe banging his nanny would be good for him,” Violet said casually. “He’s so uptight. Obviously needs to clear the pipes.”
Isobel narrowed her eyes to slits. “I thought you had the hots for him! And now you’re suggesting he bone the governess?”
“Of course I have the hots for him, me and every other woman between nine and ninety. But haven’t you noticed? The guy hates my guts. Also relevant, he had his shot.”
Harper straightened. “Had his shot? With you?”
Wasn’t Violet just a font of emotional spillage today? She took a long sip of her favorite Malbec. “I might have made a pass at him months ago, when I didn’t know who he was or that I was
technically his boss. And he got all high and mighty, accusing me of being a star fucker—like I care that he’s a pro athlete, who I could buy and sell, literally. So he missed his chance to tap this very fine ass and now he acts like I’m some sort of disease-ridden piece of junk.”
He hadn’t acted like that today, but she had no doubt their dynamic would return to the prickly, sexy surface level of before. To think she would have happily let Bren St. James be her first since her surgery! Let him touch her new(ish) breasts, grab her great ass, make her scream in ecstasy. She liked to think his rejection of her was more about him than about her, but it had definitely put a crimp in her confidence. These days, she might flirt with every Rebel, but her teases were more bark than bite.
She pointed at Harper. “You saw how he responded at Rebels HQ when I dared to talk to him in front of his spawn. He’s probably disinfecting his kitchen as we speak.”
“Probably.”
That response was a little on the speedy—and affirmative—side. “So, he does hate me?”
“Hate’s such a strong word. He’s, uh, made it clear he doesn’t want you to be involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“Looking after his kids.”
Violet’s heart sank. She’d known he didn’t approve, but to hear that he’d come right out and said it to Harper gutted her. She thought they’d hurdled something today.
What was his problem with her? Were her tattoos too bright, her streaks too pink? Did she laugh too long or remind him of what it was like to enjoy himself, back when he was downing a bottle of Johnnie Walker a day? More important, why did she care so much?
Despite growing up surrounded by the love of the man-hating Three Witches, she’d always gravitated toward guys out of her league. All-American guys who would somehow validate her, like Denny, her ex-boyfriend. Denny, who did “something in finance” and drove a Jag and wore Ferragamo loafers. Denny, who on hearing about her breast cancer diagnosis immediately focused on the upside. (Now you can get bigger tits, babe.) Denny, who bailed at the first sign of hair loss circling the drain of his alcove-recessed marble shower.
