His Eternal Flame

by Layla Valentine

  Yes!

  “I suppose I could fit you in,” I told him evenly. “How does seven sound?”

  “Sort of like heaven, but with more of a hiss.”

  I didn’t even try to keep my eyes from rolling. “I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I said, my amusement filtering into my voice.

  I gave him my address and he promised to see me at seven to tell me the whole story. I kept my cool until the instant the call ended.

  “Yes!” I cried, pumping my fists in the air. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  My excitement was too much for my chair, and I toppled. In spite of my aching hip, I laughed as I lay on the floor. Hot dates and hot rumors were the best comforts on a cold autumn day, and I had managed to snag both at once.

  “Got him,” I told the ceiling with a grin.

  * * *

  Dante Drake did not disappoint. The clean lines of his classic, steel-blue coupe accentuated the clean lines of his semi-casual suit. His light blue sport coat contrasted perfectly with his nutmeg skin and brought out his jewel-like eyes, which he flashed at me mercilessly.

  Every bit the gentleman, he opened doors and offered his elbow, gently but oh-so-firmly taking control. I wondered if he behaved the same way in bed.

  “You like Thai?” Dante asked.

  “I like good Thai,” I emphasized.

  “Looks like it’s your lucky day,” Dante said with that slow grin. “I know the best Thai place in the state.”

  His glossy black curls glistened in the city lights, and I noticed that single curl which fell over his forehead. He looked every bit as good tonight as he had ten years before; most of the pictures I’d found had been from that period. The peak of his heartthrob days, back when he was the young whippersnapper on the team. Which finally reminded me why I was really there.

  “So, you were going to tell me…”

  He grinned at me as he turned the radio up. My mouth fell open, caught somewhere between offense and amusement. I settled for a simmering pout, but let it pass quickly. If he wanted to talk at the restaurant, we would. If not…well, I might still get something out of it.

  “Here we are.” He sounded deeply satisfied, but I couldn’t quite figure out why.

  The restaurant—if you could call it that—was a tiny hole-in-the-wall in a run-down strip mall. The sign was only half-lit, making “Thai Palace” become simply “ha Place”—fitting, I thought. The ashtray outside had been kicked over, and there appeared to be a person sleeping under the window sill. I raised an eyebrow at Dante.

  “Just give it a chance,” he said, flashing his grin at me. “See how full the parking lot is?”

  “Yeah, they’re probably here for the twenty-four hour tattoos,” I replied wryly.

  “All right, all right. I’ll make you a bet,” he said, his eyes dancing. “If this place does not serve the best damn Thai food you have ever tasted, I owe you a thousand dollars.”

  “Man, I could use that right now,” I laughed. “But if it somehow, miraculously happens to be the best Thai food…?”

  “Then you owe me a kiss,” he said, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling.

  “A kiss is equitable to a thousand dollars?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” he said, suddenly serious. The moment passed quickly, and he stuck out his hand with his playful grin back in place. “Deal?”

  “Deal,” I replied as I slipped my hand into his.

  Warm, dry, and strong. His fingers fully enveloped my hand, making me feel like the daintiest little thing in the world. It was a feeling I was rarely entitled to, courtesy of my useful yet cumbersome curves, and I sort of adored him for it. Or, at the very least, I adored his hand.

  The restaurant was crowded, but somehow managed to feel cozy and private. Short glass walls topped deep booths, trailing plants obscured tables from view, and the lighting was low and rosy. I relaxed immediately.

  “Mr. Drake!” A short Asian man dressed in an apron greeted Dante with a warm handshake and an almost ecstatic grin. He repeated the gestures with me, to my amusement. “Come, come!” he said, waving for us to follow him. “Your table is ready, Mr. Drake.”

  Dante placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the restaurant. Part of my brain was annoyed at the gesture—as if I couldn’t figure out how to follow the man while dodging patrons? But the rest of my mind was distracted by the violently erotic tingle of electricity which shot over my skin when he touched me.

  I allowed Dante to guide me, and wasn’t surprised when he pulled out my chair for me.

  The man who’d greeted us was apparently the owner, as well as being Dante’s biggest fan. The table he brought us to was surrounded by walls on three sides, each of which was decorated with signed photographs of Dante and the team. He left quickly, promising that drinks would come shortly, leaving me alone with Dante.

  I looked around at the signed photos pointedly.

  “I’m not sure the food’s going to taste as good to me as it does to you,” I said with a small chuckle. “Ego-stroking tends to add spice.”

  “Then maybe I should stroke yours,” he said in a low rumble.

  He reached across the table and caressed my hand, an overly corny expression on his face. I laughed, which made him smile, which made me want to jump across the table and straddle him.

  Clearing my throat, I turned my attention to the menu. The staff were on top of every little thing; wine and water soon appeared at the table along with a bowl of appetizers, compliments of the chef.

  “They must absolutely love you here,” I remarked, watching the waiter hurry away. “Did you save his only child from a burning building or something?”

  “Pretty much,” Dante admitted, shrugging his broad shoulders.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means…once upon a time, a desperate man bet everything he owned on another man making a record-breaking shot. I made the shot; he won back twenty times what he put up and got his life together. Jack’s a good guy; he just needed that one lucky break.”

  He didn’t seem to be bragging, simply stating facts.

  “Did you ever—oh, hold on. I need to tell you that I am officially recording now. Just for my own notes.” I rifled through my bag and took out the sleek, subtle tape recorder.

  “Dinner on the record?” he asked, eying the recorder suspiciously. “Is that absolutely necessary?”

  “Yes,” I said firmly. “Otherwise I won’t remember everything.” Because I’ll be too busy imagining you lifting me up and pinning me against that wall…

  The food came, then, and I slipped the recorder into the service tray of sweeteners. I wasn’t going to waste unnecessary time arguing about the privacy concerns of tape recorders. If I didn’t say anything, maybe he would forget about it.

  I nearly forgot about it myself. The aroma of the dish before me was enough to get my mouth watering, and my first bite had my eyes practically rolling back in my head.

  “So?” he asked with a cocky little smile.

  “Too early to say,” I lied. “There are plenty of good Thai places around here.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, lightly sarcastic. “Whatever you say, Ms. Ramos. But when we leave, I’m gonna need a real answer.”

  “Deal,” I said between bites.

  Chapter 5

  I was sure I looked like a pig, but it was so good. Dante didn’t seem to mind; his victorious smirk widened every time I chose a bite over a question. Finally, after sampling each delicious dish on the table, I wiped my mouth and met his glittering eyes.

  “So, what’s the real story, Mr. Drake?”

  “Please, call me Dante.”

  “Only if you call me Livia.”

  “Deal.” He smiled that delicious smile. “Anyway. The story. No, hold on. Before I start, let me tell you a few things about Joel so you’ll have some context for all this.”

  “Wow,” I said, feeling my eyebrows raise high. “A rivalry which requir
es context. I am intrigued.”

  He grinned into his plate for a moment, then put on a serious expression.

  “How much do you know about hockey?” he asked.

  I chewed slowly for a moment, choosing my words carefully. After a moment, I decided to be honest.

  “Everything I know about hockey I learned in twenty-two minutes on the internet yesterday morning.”

  He blinked at me for a second, then threw his head back in laughter. I smiled demurely, patiently waiting him out.

  “I’ve never met a sports writer who didn’t know sports,” he said with mirth in his eyes. “How’d you land the job?”

  “The Crier didn’t want just another sports article,” I told him. “They wanted to get to know you and Palmer.”

  “They? Or you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling dangerously.

  “Do I have to choose one?”

  His grin widened, and he licked sauce off of his bottom lip, sending quivers through my core.

  “Even with just that, you should have some idea of how dangerous hockey can be,” he continued. “Practice isn’t just important—it’s vital. One wrong move on the ice and you’re in for knee surgery or stitches. We have to be in perfect sync. My team has been working hard together for so long that we’re practically telepathic. We know what to do—and what our teammates will do—in just about any scenario.”

  “Do you drill for every potential scenario?” I asked.

  “Not until we get a psychic on our team,” he teased. “We can’t know everything that’s going to happen in advance. What we can and do know is how our teammates will respond to things. It’s not really about what to do, more like…how to decide what to do. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “You’ve trained each other to think the same way when you’re on the ice, to process information the same way.”

  “Exactly,” he replied. “But what happens to that coherent strategy when someone just decides not to participate?”

  “As in, doesn’t show up to practice, or can’t figure out how to think?”

  “The first one,” he said, rolling annoyance off of his tongue. “If you don’t show up to practice, you don’t learn how to think. If you don’t learn how to think, you’re just gonna be out there, putting your team at risk so you can be the star of the show.” He shook his head in disgust.

  “How does the coach feel about this?” I asked.

  “Like he doesn’t want to cross Joel’s agent,” Dante said darkly. “They’ve got big plans for that screw-up kid. But I would bet money that he washes out of the league long before they get the kickbacks they’re dreaming about.”

  “Really? I thought he was a good player?”

  Dante shot me a wry look. “The best player in the world would wash out if he didn’t learn to sync with his team. Frankly, I don’t know how the kid made it through peewee hockey without getting tossed out on his ass.”

  “So, you think he’s irresponsible…”

  “Recklessly irresponsible.”

  “That seems a bit strong.”

  Dante turned his palm over, searching the ceiling for the words to say.

  “It isn’t just that he’s missing practice,” he explained. “It’s why he’s missing practice. He parties, and he parties hard. He could give an entire fraternity a run for their money. If he did show up, he would show up hungover and get himself seriously injured or worse.”

  Dante shook his head disapprovingly and took a bite.

  “How does that affect your rivalry?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “It drives it, to a certain extent. If he wants to win, he’ll need to get his head in the game. If he doesn’t, well…” He grinned wickedly, his brilliant eyes glittering. “It’ll be fun to knock him down a peg or five.”

  I laughed at his obvious pleasure. When I looked at him again, his eyes were lingering on my neckline. I casually rolled my shoulders back, leaning forward ever so slightly, a sultry smile twisting my lips. When he glanced up at my eyes, I could almost see the electricity in the air.

  “You don’t sound too worried about him,” I observed, cocking my head to the side. “Everybody seems to think that he’s going to overtake you as the star of the team.”

  “Not a chance,” Dante said with a cocky twist of his lips. “Not with the way he lives. He’ll burn out in a year, hang in there for another season or so, and disappear. I’ve seen it before. You’re either dedicated to the sport, or you aren’t, and that is the single most important difference between success and failure. A player’s body is his tool, and it needs to be cared for even in his down time.”

  “What do you do in your down time?” I asked. “We know Palmer parties. I know a few of the other players are active in different areas—I stumbled across Krushnic’s charity page. Are you all hockey all the time, or…?”

  He chuckled softly. “Hockey is my work. I’m passionate about it, but I can’t let it define me. I’ve seen too many legends fall without a stick to lean on. I spend my downtime appreciating life.”

  He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Tasting a bit of everything that life has to offer.”

  His touch sent shivers through my body. The delicious Thai food before me suddenly paled in comparison to the promise of carnal dessert in the air.

  “And what are your favorite flavors?” I asked suggestively.

  “The obvious, of course,” he acknowledged, trailing his fingers over the back of my hand. “And also books. Literature is an incredible tool. To be able to wrap truth in fiction…it’s almost like the authors map out new connections in their readers’ brains, open them up to see the world in a new light, without ever letting them know what’s happening.”

  “I never thought about fiction that way,” I admitted, surprised at this intellectual side of him. “Words are powerful; that’s why I’m drawn to them—but I’m no good with fiction.”

  “Oh, I think you could be,” he said with an assessing look.

  I smiled a little, my own confidence swelling slightly with his compliment.

  “What else do you like?” I asked.

  He grinned at the table, looking almost embarrassed. I found the contrast of that look on his powerful, macho body endlessly attractive, and I shifted my legs under the table to brush my calf against his.

  “I enjoy opera,” he said quietly. “And plays. I go out dancing whenever I have the opportunity.”

  “To clubs? Which ones?” I asked, wondering if I might have seen him before.

  “Oh, no,” he said, his expressive face exhibiting distaste. “I gave up clubbing years ago. No, I go down to the old Dancehall Revival. Ballroom, swing, Latin dance, that kind of thing. Better music, better lighting, and better people. Granted, most of the women who go are either old enough to be my mother or young enough to be my daughter, so it’s not much of a help to my love life.”

  “Then why go?” I asked.

  “To dance,” he said simply. “Have you ever danced like that?”

  I had to think about it for a long moment. Sure, I’d danced plenty—awkward high school dances and girls’ nights out in bars and clubs…but ballroom dancing?

  “Once,” I said finally, nostalgia settling on my face as the memory surfaced. “When I was about nine years old. My dad’s friend got married, and there was this huge dance floor at the reception.

  “This old man—I mean, he seemed old to me, but he was probably in his mid-fifties—was dancing with everybody. I was bored and energetic from too much cake, and demanded to dance with him.” I laughed at the memory. “Poor guy spun me around the floor for three songs before my dad rescued him. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “I would love to remind you sometime,” he said, lifting my hand from the table and pressing it to his lips. “A woman like you deserves to be spun.”

  Depth, class, and charm. He was surprising me more with every sentence, exciting my mind along with my body. I w
anted more of him in every way, but when he slid his hand down to lightly tease the tender skin on my wrist, the primal need took priority.

  I suggested we call for the check.

  Chapter 6

  I’m not sure whether he invited me back to his place or I invited myself, but it was clear where the evening was headed before the check came.

  Dante’s guiding hands lingered a little longer, softened a little more, trailed as he pulled them away. Tension built in the car on the ride back, and by the time he unlocked the door of his apartment, I was aching for him.

  As the door closed behind me, he turned, placing his hands on either side of my head, sandwiching my ravenous body between himself and the door. His breath was hot against my lips, and his gaze burned deliciously over me.

  “I would like to kiss you, Ms. Ramos.”

  “I would enjoy that, Mr. Drake,” I replied, lightly mocking.

  He crushed the sass out of my mouth with his full, supple lips. He stole my breath with his tongue, ignited my body with his hands. I writhed against him as he pressed into me, wrapping one leg around his, opening my hips as he grew hot and hard against me.

  There were entirely too many clothes between us, in spite of my short skirt. He broke away from my kiss, breathing heavily, his eyes smoldering beneath his thick lashes.

  “Let me give you the tour,” he said, his voice rumbling low in his throat.

  He grabbed my hand and led me through the small, beautifully decorated apartment. I was struck by the clean lines and tasteful choices in a hazy sort of way; I was paying far more attention to his energy, his scent, his touch. He must have been in much the same state, because the “tour” was as short as it could have been.

  “The kitchen’s in there,” he said, pointing past a classic dining table to a swinging door. “Living room’s through there.”

  The arched opening revealed dark brown couches and little glass tables, simultaneously masculine and aesthetically pleasing, just like the man who lived there. He pointed out a few more places, then pushed through a pair of French doors tucked into a sunken alcove.