by Lili Valente
Jake Falcone better bring his A game to our first meeting and prove to me that he deserves an ally, or all bets are off.
So…I guess there’s a chance this will end up being a dick lit novel after all.
If “the Dragon” is a dick, I’ll leave you with him.
Or you could come with me! We could go window-shopping, or out for coffee. Or take a long walk and soak in the leaves feathering the skyline with bursts of glorious color. Fall is my absolute favorite time of year, but even if you’re not a fan of crisp, autumn air and the smell of chestnuts roasting in street vendor carts near Tavern on the Green, just about anything is more fun without a big, dumb jerk around.
Like my Aunt Tansy always said—a good man is like melted cheese; a bad one is like a rectal exam. In other words, a good man makes everything better, but a bad one is no fun under any circumstances.
Think about winning the lottery while having a rectal exam. Sure, you can imagine how excited you’re going to be after the probe is over, but at the moment there’s still something cold and hard stuck up your butt with nothing but a glob of cold lube to prep you for the invasion.
So, keep that in mind when you’re deciding if the Dragon is worth your time. I know I will.
Sincerely,
Shane “Miraculous Mess” Willoughby
CHAPTER ONE
Shane
At approximately ten minutes before two on a crisp October afternoon, I settle onto a bench in the private garden behind my Aunt Tansy’s apartment building on the Upper East Side to await my first gentleman caller.
Not my first ever—I’m not in the running for NYC’s oldest virgin—but my first since moving back to the city.
It’s been a year, but Aunt Tansy’s apartment still doesn’t feel like “mine,” I haven’t done much socializing outside the staff of the charitable trust I’ve run since Aunt T’s death, and I haven’t even considered making time to date. Dating ranks in my priorities somewhere behind finalizing my will and getting my cholesterol checked—among things I plan on forgetting about until I’m at least fifty or begin experiencing unexplained chest pains.
But this isn’t a date.
This is a business meeting.
So there’s absolutely no reason to be nervous, especially on a gorgeous day like this one. The sun is shining through the brightly colored leaves, transforming the canopy overhead into a ceiling of stained glass, the smell of fall is sharp in the air, and I’m bundled into the softest sweater in existence. The tag says it’s made of alpaca fleece, but it feels like it was knitted from the underbelly fur of angel kittens. It’s heavenly against my skin, as heavenly as the salted caramel latte in my hand and the happy buzz of caffeine coursing through my system.
Afternoon coffee is a special treat, as is a day spent lounging in my pajamas until noon, followed by a lunch date with my friend Adeline. Addie, my downstairs neighbor, is the paid companion to a wealthy old ogre named Eloise, who thrives on violating labor laws and working her staff into a state of nervous exhaustion. Addie and I haven’t had time for lunch, let alone coffee after, in nearly a month.
I should be enjoying our gossip session and the perfect-so-far day, but I can’t keep my mind on the conversation or my eyes off the garden entrance, hidden beneath the maple trees. In ten minutes, a professional hockey player who may or may not have choked his ex-girlfriend half to death will be using a code I supplied to step through that wrought iron gate and into my safe place.
If it’s true that the bruises on Falcone’s ex were faked, then Addie and I are perfectly safe. But if he’s lying, I might have invited a monster in through my garden gate.
“You should go upstairs before he gets here,” I say, interrupting Addie in the middle of a horror story about Eloise’s latest list of impossible-to-procure groceries. “Just to be safe.”
“Absolutely not. I’m not leaving you alone with a stranger,” Addie says, pushing her glasses up her nose.
They’re actually my old glasses, donated because Addie refuses to use up one of her precious days off getting her eyes checked, but they look better on her. With her pale, heart-shaped face, dark eyes, and halo of brown curls, she can look a little waifish when left to her own devices. The horn-rimmed glasses with the rhinestones in the frame give her a playful edge that softens the severity of her light-and-dark features and wardrobe of Dour Librarian Business Casual.
“And I’m not passing up the chance to see the Dragon in person,” she continues with a grin. “I’m a huge fan.”
“Really? Since when do you watch hockey?”
“Since forever! My five little brothers all played growing up and my dad is a die-hard Rangers fan. He was on TV with Dancing Larry twice.”
“Dancing Larry?” I repeat, brow arching.
“Dancing Larry.” Addie’s eyes widen over the rim of her hot chocolate. “You know, the guy who dances at all the home games? To Strike It Up? To get everyone pumped after the last time out of the third period?”
My gaze slides to the gate—still no sign of my potential client—and back to Addie’s expectant face. “Umm…”
Her lips narrow in disapproval. “You said you did your homework, Shane. How could you have missed the scoop on Dancing Larry? He’s a Ranger’s icon. A legend even.”
My shoulders creep toward my ears. “I don’t know? Maybe because Larry isn’t accused of strangling his ex-girlfriend?”
“To be fair, neither is Jake,” Addie says, in a tone that surprises me. It sounds like she’s talking about a friend, not a stranger who she watches slap a puck around on television. “No charges have been filed. At this point, it’s all speculation and conjecture. I honestly can’t understand why people seem so ready to believe the worst. Jake has never been involved in a scandal. He never even gets into fights on the ice.”
“Sports fans are weird,” I mumble.
“We are not!” Addie sits up straighter. “We’re loyal. That’s a good thing.”
“But you don’t know this man, Addie. Not really. You know the image he presents to the world,” I say then push on when her lips part in protest. “Jake could have lied to Bash about what happened with his ex. He could have been beating his girlfriends for years and just doing a better job of keeping it hidden. It’s possible. I mean, look at Bill Cosby. He was drugging and assaulting women for decades in secret while we all went around thinking he was America’s sweet, ugly-sweater-wearing, Jell-O-eating dad.”
Addie lifts a hand, but I’m not done yet.
It bothers me to see my friend so taken with a guy who is, at best, a womanizing jerk who goes through famous girlfriends like Kleenex, and at worst, a bully with anger management issues.
“And what has Falcone done to earn your loyalty? Skated really well? Shot a piece of plastic around the ice with better than average accuracy?” I snort. “I mean, I understand enjoying his game, but being good at playing a sport has nothing to do with being a good person. And if I get a bad vibe from this douche, it’s going to take me all of ten seconds to decide he can find someone else to help him out of the mess he’s made.”
“A hockey puck is made of vulcanized rubber, not plastic.” The deep voice rumbles from the shadows beneath the trees, and I freeze, fingers tightening around my coffee cup.
My eyes widen in panic as I meet Addie’s scandalized gaze.
“I tried to tell you,” she whispers, “but you were in rant mode.”
I curse silently, wondering if I’ll ever learn to keep my stupid mouth shut, and turn to face the very large, very intimidating, very clearly-not-happy-with-me hockey player standing by my garden gate.
Our eyes connect and the first thought that zips through my head is that Jake Falcone is even more immense in person than he looks on television, like a small mountain, or a holdover from the days when Viking warriors roamed this corner of the earth, smashing lobsters open with their fists. The second is that his dark brown eyes are more intelligent than I expected them to be.
; The third is that he is without a doubt the sexiest, most magnetic, most drop dead gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Bar none.
Jake “the Dragon” Falcone is a fucking god among men and it looks like I’m in for way more than I bargained for.
CHAPTER TWO
Shane
I swallow hard, fighting to get my head back in the game, but my thoughts have gone foggy in the face of the epic man pretty.
It’s more than the shaggy, brownish-black hair, the chiseled features, the impossibly broad shoulders, or the forearms worthy of a two-page spread in Forearm Porn Monthly. Falcone has the kind of intense personal energy that reaches across time and space, wraps around me like a giant sexy fist, and robs me of my ability to breathe. Pictures and the game footage I’ve watched online haven’t done him justice. Not even close.
One look at the man and I want to climb him like a tree, wrap my legs around his waist, and do my best impression of a baby orangutan.
Infant orangutans cling to their mother’s fur for the first five months of life, but the longer I stare at the man, the more I think five months might not be enough. All the repressed sexual frustration from my year of celibacy is hitting with the force of a tsunami, leaving me dizzy, off balance, and in danger of oozing off the bench into a puddle of lust juice on the ground.
The need to lick every inch of my client like a giant hunksicle is actually making my knees tremble, which is so not me.
I haven’t been on a date in over a year, but that’s not because there haven’t been offers. I have my share of undesirable qualities, but I’m friendly, good-natured, fun, and far from painful to look at. I’ve been told I have the face of angel and, for men who appreciate curves, a body to match.
A number of those same men quickly change their tune once they learn I’ve also got zero tolerance for bullshit and no filter between my brain and my mouth, but scoring a date or finding a guy to keep my sheets warm has never been a problem. Like most women with any interest in peen, if I wanted to be getting laid on the regular, I would be.
But since moving to the city, I haven’t been interested in anything more serious than a few flirty exchanges with the guy who delivers my groceries. The last time I was with someone, it was with Wesley. When he left, he took my sex drive with him.
I guess deep down I knew I would eventually feel attracted to another man, but I never expected it to be this man. And I never expected the lust wave to hit this hard, leaving me slack-jawed and trying not to drool as the object of my fascination props his hands low on his hips and asks—
“Is there any point in sticking around? Or have you already made up your mind that I’m not worth your time?”
I shake my head, but for once in my life words don’t come.
Crap and double crap! I have to pull myself together. Right now! Before I make an even worse first impression.
Thankfully, Addie buys me some time as she springs to her feet and holds out a hand in Falcone’s direction. “Hi! I’m Adeline, Shane’s friend. It’s so great to meet you! I’m such a fan of your game. I’ve been watching since you came out of the AHL when Leone was injured.”
Falcone takes her hand—making me intensely envious of my friend’s fingers—and mumbles something humble-sounding that throws me almost as much as my reaction to him.
I expected more of an ego. A hell of a lot more.
My research might have overlooked the details on Dancing Larry, but I dug deep enough to know that Falcone is a superstar. Recruited into the NHL after only a couple of months in the minors, he’s been one of the faces of the league since his first turn on the ice at Madison Square Garden. He’s as big a celebrity as a hockey player can be and has the friends, and enemies, to go along with that.
The friends, especially his coaches, I suspect of ignoring the media pressure to have Falcone tested for steroid use—a substance that would explain why a famously cool customer is suddenly choking girlfriends in his spare time. The enemies I suspect of manipulating the press from behind the scenes, pushing to ruin Jake’s reputation and maybe even his career.
Until now, my gut said Falcone needed help making his ex-girlfriend problem go away because he has something to hide. Now, I’m not so sure. Looking at him, I don’t get a bad-guy vibe, though it would be hard to latch on to any vibe aside from the “pounce that man and get naked” one pulsing through my bloodstream.
But like anyone who has lived through trauma, I have experience pretending to be fine when I’m anything but. By the time Falcone and Addie are finished talking hockey, I’ve tossed my coffee cup into the bin beside the potted mums, talked my trembling knees back into line, and come to stand next to Addie, facing down my dragon.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” I say, in my most conciliatory tone. “I hope you’ll stay and talk things through. I’d love to hear your side of the story in person, and I’ll be happy to help you if I think I can. I just need to make my own decision about whether it’s a good idea for us to work together. Bash is a friend, but I don’t know him well enough to trust him implicitly.”
“I don’t trust anyone implicitly.” Jake reaches into his back pocket, pulling out several sheets of folded paper. “Including you. I’m going to need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement before we get started.”
I frown, but reach for the contract anyway, my arm apparently willing to do Falcone’s bidding with no questions asked. “But I already have a non-disclosure form on file at the office. I signed it when I filled out the rest of the new hire paperwork. It should have been in your packet.”
“It was. But that agreement was drawn up by your lawyers,” he says, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes my skin start to prickle all over. “This one was drawn up by mine. My privacy is important to me, and I need to know that it’s going to be protected.”
“All right.” I nod, ignoring the malfunctioning of my central nervous system. “Give me a few minutes to look it over. If everything is on the up and up, I’ll sign and we can get started right away.” I force a smile. “And for what it’s worth, I’m a private person, too. And I take my promises seriously. I would never share anything told to me in confidence, with or without a legal document to enforce good behavior.”
“Well…good. Thank you.” His dark eyes soften, hinting that there might be a kindred spirit in there beneath his broody exterior. “I appreciate that, and I…” He clears his throat as he stretches his head stiffly to one side. “For what it’s worth, I hope you decide I’m worth your time. Bash was right, you’re perfect for the job.”
He meets my gaze, and breathing becomes harder than it was a moment before. “The pictures in your file are pretty, but they don’t do you justice. You’re just…incredible.”
Incredible. The word emerges from his full lips with a reverence that makes me feel like a million-dollar painting, or the view from Mount Kilimanjaro, and my ovaries explode with twin pops of surrender. I also suspect that my panties may be catching fire.
Something urgent and dangerous is definitely going on below my faux leather belt, but I can’t bring myself to look away from Falcone’s eyes long enough to assess the situation. I’m drowning in those eyes, sucked into a black hole of desire from whence there will be no return. My nipples tighten, my mouth goes dry, and the only way to keep myself from saying something inappropriate is to pull my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard enough to send pain flashing through my jaw.
Crap on a whole grain cracker, if simply making eye contact with this man gets me this worked up, I shudder to think what state I’ll be in if we make it to the kissing-practice portion of orientation.
Kissing practice.
Shit. If Jake’s story checks out and we decide to move forward, I could be kissing this man before the afternoon is through.
Kissing Jake Falcone—my tongue tangling with his and his taste in my mouth and those strong arms wrapped around me so tight it won’t even matter if my knees turn to
lumpy oatmeal…
The thought shouldn’t be so completely sanity-shattering. The man is my client. Kissing him will be a part of my job. Even if locking lips with him is as intense as I’m guessing it will be, it won’t mean anything, and it won’t lead anywhere but down the hard, bumpy road to Sexual Frustration-ville.
Bash made it clear from the beginning that an interventionist’s physical relationship with his or her client never goes further than a kiss.
Except when it does…
Look at Cat and Aidan, they certainly moved on from kissing to rolling around naked at the Orgasm Party pretty quickly.
But Aidan and Cat were old friends, I remind myself. They weren’t strangers, and Cat was the one in trouble, not the one rumored to have nearly strangled a woman. The thought is sobering, and should be more than enough to put a damper on my inappropriate panty fire.
But that’s the thing about fire. It’s wild and unpredictable and it doesn’t give a shit about right and wrong.
It just wants to burn…
CHAPTER THREE
Shane
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve signed the non-disclosure agreement, hugged Addie good-bye with promises to text her later, and settled back onto the bench next to Jake, who takes up quite a bit more real estate than Adeline did.
I scoot to the far edge of the seat to give him more room, but our thighs are still only a few inches apart and I can feel his heat caressing the right side of my body. The man is a furnace, the kind of guy who would make you throw off the covers in the middle of the night because simply lying next to him is enough to keep you warm.
Stop thinking about lying next to him in bed, Shane.
Seriously. Right now.
Stop it!
