by Kate Meader
“Napping,” she said firmly. “That’s all we’re doing.”
“Yes. Napping.” He kissed her softly, a prelude to so much more than a nap. She sank into him, but he didn’t take it any further and neither would she, not when there were flu survivors likely to wander in at any moment. Kissing was okay, though. Pretty harmless, she insisted to the parts of her that were flirting with self-control.
“Mia’s already getting interest from agents. I think she needs advice.”
“Then give it to her.”
“Her brother’s advice.”
He blew out a breath that ruffled the hair at her temple, close to her scar. “She is too young to be tying herself to all of that. And it’s not as if she will ever want for a thing. Half of our father’s wealth belongs to her.”
“You’re just going to give it to her? Millions of rubles?”
“A million rubles is only twenty thousand dollars. We are talking billions. It is her inheritance, and her father would have wanted her to have it.”
Sure it was Vadim’s to do with as he pleased, but she suspected Victoria would have an opinion here.
“That doesn’t really answer Mia’s problem about an agent. She’s going to be under a lot of pressure and . . .”
“And, what?”
“Promise me you won’t push her too hard. Let her be a teenager. Let her enjoy college and hang with friends and fall in love. Go dancing and watch Friends episodes.”
“This is why I’ve been trying to protect her. Now that everyone knows we are related, she is getting more attention.”
“It was going to come out eventually. I just worry about her. About girls like her.”
Vadim cupped her cheek and stroked his thumb along it. “You missed out on so much, Bella.”
“I suppose.”
“And now you are making up for it, greedy witch.” His hand cupped her ass and pulled her over his body.
She swatted his hand away. “Maybe we should talk.”
“I thought this was a booty call.”
He pronounced it “beauty,” which was sweet, especially as Vadim’s English was excellent and she suspected his mispronunciation was deliberate.
“I came to feed the ill, but now I’d like payment with the deep stuff. I’d like to know more about you and your life in Russia.”
“This is not a good time. I have more urgent needs, and then you can delve into my sordid history when I am weak and depleted. I need to be inside you, Bella.”
She laughed, loving how honest he was. She wasn’t sure she could ever be that honest with him, yet he had become the only person she wanted to talk to. The only person who could understand a tenth of what she was going through. So he didn’t approve of her choice to try out for Team USA, but she knew he would cheer her on if she made the grade.
“You need to sing for the right to give me an orgasm, Vadim.”
“I cannot sing.”
“Then answer a few questions.”
Vadim sighed. Isobel was relentless, and while he admired this attitude on the ice, he was not so enamored of it on unfrozen terrain.
“You may ask questions. I can’t guarantee I will answer.”
“Do you miss your father?”
He wasn’t expecting that. “Yes. He was a difficult man, but he had my best interests at heart.”
“How was he difficult?” She leaned up on her elbow.
“Like yours, he had high expectations. He wanted me to go into the family business. He thought that hockey was just a phase. But when he realized I intended to make it my life, he relented. Or, rather, he ignored it.”
“What kind of business was he in?”
“Telecommunications, tech, energy. A lot of fingers in a lot of tarts.”
She firmed her lips, clearly holding in a smile.
“Did I not say it right?”
“Pies, Vadim. A lot of fingers in a lot of pies.”
He moved his fingers between her legs. “Pies, tarts, it is all warm and welcoming and tasty.”
Grabbing his hand, she placed it outside the blanket, then wagged a finger. “Nuh-uh.”
“I know what you are doing,” he murmured.
“What I’m doing?”
“Yes, you are trying to force me to admit my father had faults so I will be sympathetic toward Victoria.”
“There are two sides to every story.”
Not to this one. “Perhaps she did not like Russian winters or she missed McDonald’s french fries—they are different in St. Petersburg, you know. Perhaps she had a hard time making friends with the wives of my father’s business associates or she did not want to put in the effort. Perhaps my father had an affair or she found someone else she loved more. Yes, there are two sides, but only one of them left me without a mother at the age of ten.”
She laid her head on his shoulder and made circles with her finger on his chest. “When she gets better,” she said, “they’ll go back to New York.”
In her words he heard her judgment: this was his chance to get all the answers he sought, if only he would not be so stubborn. He sighed, knowing the ice was starting to crack under him, yet he wasn’t ready to greet the inevitable cold rush of water.
“Mia is my future. Victoria is my past.”
“Tell me about the first time you met Mia.”
He smiled, though the memory was a mix of pleasure and pain. “It was in a hospital room in New York a couple of months after my father died. Victoria had called the day before.” No preamble, no buildup from the woman who had borne and abandoned him, and he supposed it was better that way. Her reasons for contacting him were blunt. He’d hoped his father’s death would prompt her to get in touch, now that this last barrier to her contacting him was gone. But no, not even that was enough to bring her back into his life.
“Mia looked so weak, lying there. She had only learned who I was that morning. Victoria did not want to get her hopes up until I agreed to come out and be tested as a donor.”
“You didn’t hesitate?”
“No. The blood of my ancestors runs in her veins. There was no choice for me. I was a match, and we went from there.” Angry again, he drew back from her. “My father should have met her.”
“What do you think would have happened if he’d known about her?”
He shifted to face her. “He would have welcomed her into the family. Made sure she wanted for nothing.”
“Maybe fought for custody?”
So transparent. “It would have been his right.”
“And what about your mother’s rights? Maybe she was afraid because your father could buy his way into Mia’s life.”
“He would not have needed to do that. Every girl wants to know her father.”
He could see her clever mind working overtime, seeking another access point to his compassion. She wouldn’t find it. He was all tapped out as far as Victoria Wallace was concerned.
“You said your father might have had an affair, like that was normal. Like your mother should have put up with that.”
“Your mother put up with your father. Though the fact that she is gay may excuse his behavior.”
She sat up. “He cheated on Harper’s mother with mine. He cheated on mine with Violet’s. And I know there were more. But of course, hockey players always defend their own. The ice brotherhood, right?”
“All I am saying is that an uninterested woman in your bed changes the situation.”
“Of course, the woman is always to blame.”
“Your mother is a lesbian! There is fault on both sides there, Isobel.”
She pointed a finger in his shoulder. “Exactly. But my mother’s sexuality didn’t give my father an excuse to bang everything that’s not nailed down. Harper’s mother can’t give him a son, he moves on. My mother can’t satisfy him, he moves on. He knocks Violet’s mom up and abandons her.”
“Yet you loved him.”
Her eyes reflected her hurt. “Yet I did.”
“As I
loved my father. For all his flaws.”
She leaned in, her breath soft against his lips. “We can acknowledge they had faults, that they were not perfect, but they were still the men who shaped us. You can forgive him his faults, but not your mother hers?”
Back to this. “People make sacrifices all the time for their children. For the people they love. My father was not perfect, but surely she could tolerate his faults for a few years. Until I was old enough to not care if they were no longer together.”
“He might have cheated on her, and she should put up with that? Is that what you think marriage is, Vadim? One person calls the shots because he has the power? Or because there are children who would probably be better off with their parents apart? Never mind that he’s unfaithful. That he screws around. That he’s unable to resist the women throwing themselves at him because he’s powerful and rich.”
He sensed she was accusing him of crimes he had yet to commit.
“I am not my father, Isobel.” Nor yours.
“That’s not what I meant.” She looked rattled. “Not everything is so clear cut, Vadim. You’ve heard your father’s side of the story. Get your mother’s now while you can.”
TWENTY-THREE
“Chica, you look hot!”
Isobel handed off her coat to the cloakroom attendant at the Drake Hotel, site of the Hockey for Everyone fund-raiser, and faced Violet, who was shrugging off her jacket.
“I do a lot with this foundation, so I don’t want to look like I just crawled out of a sweaty gym bag.”
Violet passed off her coat and ran a hand through her hair, to which she had recently added purple streaks. With her gleaming skin, emerald eyes, and floral tattoos on her upper arms, she looked so sexy in a red shift dress and thigh-high boots. Dominatrix chic. Isobel didn’t look sexy in the slightest, let alone hot, but she was mildly pleased at how this green dress matched her eyes and draped over her body, giving her curves that were previously nonexistent. With the kitten heels, she wasn’t too tall—though Vadim would always be taller no matter how high her heels.
“The Russian’s going to think you’re totally bangin’.”
Isobel grimaced. “I’m trying to cool that off.” And doing a fantastic job by nagging the guy to talk about his deep, dark problems. Go, me!
“Ladies, lookin’ fine.”
They turned to see Cade, Erik, and Bren walking in, rocking smart suits with ties. Even though the guys wore suits on game days, there was still something about seeing a big hunk of brawn all dressed up that got a girl’s senses a-tingling.
Cade, complimenter in chief, kissed Vi on the cheek and then pulled Isobel in for a hug. “Off the clock, Coach, so just accept my affection.”
Isobel laughed. “If I must. You ready to flash those pearly whites for the children, Alamo?” One of the fun parts of the evening was a bachelor auction with the single players. According to Felicia in Rebels’ PR, anticipation was at a fever pitch, especially as the team had six games left in the regular season and was on the cusp of making the play-offs. Charity events always raised the profile for the team, and getting the Rebels behind this one was great for their image.
Cade grinned big. “As long as some cougar doesn’t expect me to put out on the first date, we should be good.”
Violet was eyeing Bren, who was doing his utmost to ignore her. “Should we expect to see you on the block, Highlander?”
He scowled. “Doubt anyone would be interested.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Violet said, all mischief. “I think I’ll set conditions for my bid. I’d like to see you in a kilt on our date.”
Bren raised his scruffily bearded chin—almost a play-offs beard, which was definitely tempting fate—and held Violet’s gaze. His eyes ran a disapproving arc over her hair, then a not-so-disapproving arc over her body. “Not bloody likely, Ms. Vasquez.”
Her smile was slow, all flirtation. “I bet I could get you to wear one by the time the season is over.”
“How much is this foolish bet worth to you?” His Scottish brogue sounded like he’d just dropped in from a Sean Connery sound-alike convention.
“Hundred bucks,” Violet said.
Bren spoke low, husky. “I don’t need the money, but I’ll think of something in kind.”
That made Violet blush. The tension prickling between the two could have charged every iPhone present. Playing with fire, this girl.
Oblivious to the mating ritual, Erik said, “Let’s go in. I bet they have good canapés.” Their goalie was obsessed with finding his next meal.
Cade held an elbow out for Violet and his other for Isobel. “Yes, I can handle you both, ladies.”
Giggling like schoolgirls, they took the offered arms and walked into the ballroom, which was already jam-packed. No immediate sign of Vadim, however. While Isobel had mentioned it to him a couple of weeks ago, she hadn’t brought it up since. But she wanted to see him, especially as she felt foolish for inserting her Clifford issues into her heart-to-heart with him about his father.
Everyone drifted toward the bar, but Isobel broke away, needing to check her phone. Coach Lindhoff was due to call any day now with news of whether she’d made the team. The restrooms were as good a place as any for privacy, but her phone screen remained frustratingly blank.
On her way out, she stopped short at a surprising sight at the end of the corridor: Cade and Dante, engaged in what looked like a heated conversation.
Well, engaged wasn’t quite right. Cade’s usually easygoing expression was a mask of intensity as he leaned intimately close to Dante. The Rebels’ GM was listening closely, not saying a word. Until something Cade uttered had him responding with a palm flat on Cade’s chest.
The Texan jerked back clumsily, his back crashing against the wall. It shocked her. Isobel would never have thought him homophobic, but it was as if Dante’s touch repulsed him.
Dante stood back, giving Cade space to leave, which he took like a bat out of hell. Alone, Dante did the oddest thing—he touched the wall where Cade’s back had leaned, then curled his hand into a fist. On a deep breath, he raised his gaze and locked it with Isobel’s. The flash of pain on his face faded, but not quickly enough. Didn’t she feel quite the voyeur.
“Isobel.”
“Oh, hey there.” Let’s just pretend I didn’t witness whatever the hell that was. “Surprised to see you here,” she said, moving forward.
“I’m up for anything that makes the organization look good,” he said with a smile. He really had the most gorgeous smile, even when forced. “And I hear you’re being honored with an award.”
The foundation wanted to give her a token for her efforts. All nonsense, really. “Oh, that.”
“No need to underplay it. I know you work hard with those kids, just as I know you did a great job with Petrov. And I understand your skills are already in demand. I’ll have to talk to Coach Calhoun and the rest of the staff, but I think it’s safe to say you’ll have a full-time position next season.”
Isobel nodded, her throat tightening. Two of the Rebels’ defensemen—Cade and Kazinksy—had asked her if she would work with them on their skating skills now that her methods had proven successful. A full-time coaching position; plan B achieved.
But plan A was still a possibility.
“Not worried we’re bucking the status quo too much, Dante?”
“I think the Rebels are just living up to their name. Nothing succeeds like success. In the end, that’s all anyone cares about.” He frowned. “I thought you’d be happier.”
“Still adjusting to the new world order.”
Evidently distracted, he merely nodded. His phone went off in his hand. “Excuse me.” He moved farther down the corridor to answer it.
She left him there, pondering how we always want what we cannot have. Dante appeared to have a crush—or something—on Cade, who as far as Isobel knew was about as het as they came. Nothing but heartbreak down that road.
Back in the
ballroom, she did the rounds like a politician. Harper, wearing a strapless black and silver sheath, was doing the same on the other side, and they met in the middle.
“Ever get sick of pretending Dad was awesome?” Harper asked with a fake grin.
“Hey, if the name gets us butts in seats and extra green for the kids.”
“Yeah, I know.” Harper smiled, for real this time, and grasped Isobel’s arms. “You look gorgeous, Iz. Absolutely stunning.”
Isobel tamped down on the part of her psyche that had always craved her sister’s approval. “Just doing my part for the Chase name.”
“What do you think the old coot would say if he could see us now?”
Isobel had no idea. He had been a great player, a good coach, a bad husband, and a demanding father, but she would never claim to have understood him.
She hazarded a guess. “He’d say he knew we could do it all along.”
Harper laughed. “He would! God, he was such a know-it-all asshole.”
“Minou, you talkin’ about me behind my back again?” Remy’s lips grazed Harper’s shoulder. Apparently he had a thing for her shoulders; odes had been composed, according to Harper.
“Well, I see Mac Farnum trying to catch my eye,” Isobel said, and smiled her excuses as she went to meet the foundation head. Five minutes later, she had extracted herself from Mac’s orbit—he’d been trying to persuade her to give his grandson personal coaching lessons—and was skirting the edge of the stage when she felt a tug on her arm. Foxy-fast, she was shanghaied and dragged behind a curtain.
Six feet five inches of built-for-pleasure Russian held her immobile.
“Vadim!”
He pressed two fingers to her lips. “Shush, Bella. Do you want to alert the world?”
She rolled her eyes. “You could have just walked up and said hello out in the open.”
“Then I wouldn’t have been able to do this.” His mouth sought hers, all sweet hunger and sensual rawness. Her lips parted to give him access. The sweep of his tongue, a luxury she couldn’t afford, was divine. She took it anyway because she’d missed him.
Lust. Not a good foundation. But it certainly filled the horny cracks.
