“Can I help you with your things?” he asked, as she bent to retrieve her briefcase and a stack of file folders. Out of habit, his eyes shifted to the long, shapely legs and sexy ankles, and he had to remind himself why he was there. His weakness for hot women had landed him in enough trouble.
“I got it, thanks,” she said, tightly, avoiding his gaze as she struggled to close the door. She was taller than he’d expected, her three-inch heels putting her head just below the line of his jaw.
The perfect height to kiss. The perfect lips, too. The full, pale nude glossed mouth would be incredibly tempting…under different circumstances.
She cleared her throat loudly and his stare snapped back to hers. “Excuse me,” she said, moving past him.
As she did, her long, dark hair snagged on a tree branch, yanking her backward. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
“Hold on, just stay still. Don’t make it worse,” he said, stepping forward.
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “I got it.”
He held his hands up. “Sorry, just trying to help.”
“If you’d parked in a space that could accommodate your vehicle, I wouldn’t be stuck in a tree in the first place,” she said, readjusting her files in one arm as she reached back with her hand to free her hair.
“I offered to move it.” He folded his arms and continued to watch her fumbling. “You’re making it worse.”
She shot him a look, then not having any success, she sighed. “Fine.”
“Fine what?”
“You can help,” she said through clenched teeth.
He was tempted to say his offer had expired, but this was technically his fault. “Okay, hold still.” Trying to avoid the scratchy tree branches poking him, he stood in front of her and reached around. As predicted, the top of her head fit nicely under his chin. His chest brushed against hers, but he kept his focus on the tangled hair, relying on every ounce of gentlemanly manners not to sneak a peek down her blouse. The smell of her jasmine-scented shampoo competed with the cherry blossoms, and he held his breath as he untwisted the strands from the tree. Delicious, intoxicating-smelling women were another of his weaknesses.
Her hair was thick and soft and the natural golden highlights reflected the sun. He resisted the urge to let the locks run through his fingers as he unwrapped them from their snag on the twigs. She was perfectly still, her eyes staring straight at his chest, her breath warm against his neck as he worked. He could hear the dull throbbing of a heartbeat, but he couldn’t be sure if it was his or hers. The close proximity made him suddenly uncomfortable, and after freeing the last of her locks, he moved away quickly. “There.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled, but it sounded more begrudging than grateful. Avoiding his gaze, she smoothed the hair back in place and stepped around him.
He rushed to match her pace as she headed toward the building. “Do we know each other?” She looked familiar, and the knot in his stomach had him questioning whether he’d had the pleasure of meeting her before. It might explain the way she was acting.
“Not yet,” she said.
At the office doors, she reached for the handle, but he stepped quicker. Holding it open, he gestured for her to enter. “After you.”
She sighed as she went inside.
“Look, I apologized about the Hummer.”
“It’s fine.” She hit the button for the elevator. “If you like destroying the environment,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.” She checked her watch, as the elevator light lit up and the doors opened. Everything about her, from the dark gray charcoal suit jacket and pencil skirt to the red leather briefcase, screamed lawyer, and when she pressed the button for the ninth floor, he suspected they were headed to the same place.
“You work here?” he asked.
She turned to face him, and he remembered exactly where he’d seen her before—she’d represented his soon-to-be sister-in-law in her divorce case the year before. Shit. His palms started to sweat. “I’m Olivia Davis—the lawyer representing Ms. Sullivan, or should I say ‘your wife’?”
His stomach dropped as he realized just how screwed he was. “If I’d known that, I would have left you stuck in that tree.”
* * *
Did he have to be so gorgeous?
Embarrassing herself in front of the opposition’s client wasn’t the way she’d hoped to start this process. Especially not when the man had sent her pulse racing while he’d rescued her hair from that stupid tree. Tall and muscular, with dark brown hair and clear blue eyes, a chiseled jawline lightly covered in stubble—it was almost as if he’d stepped right off her wish list.
It figured that the same day she officially decided to take herself off the market—for at least nine months—she experienced an overwhelming pull toward a man she not only couldn’t have, but shouldn’t want.
Pro athletes were on her “no dating” list. She’d had one athlete-induced broken heart, and that was enough for one lifetime. Of course, that was high school, and by now she should have gotten over being dumped by the captain of the basketball team a week before prom, but her career choice suggested she was still holding a grudge. A tiny one.
There was just something about Ben that was irritatingly tempting. Despite his reputation. Despite his unconscientious preference of vehicles. And despite the way his gaze taking her in in the parking lot had made her knees feel slightly unsteady. It no doubt had everything to do with his unexpected friendliness as he’d apologized for the parking situation. Or more likely, it was the biceps straining against the navy suit jacket he wore and the glimpse of his muscular neck and chest beneath the open collar of his shirt, which should have been wasted hotness where she was concerned.
Hotter the man, deeper the cut.
She suspected her client’s scar would take quite a long time to fade.
Her client who’d yet to show up. Olivia glanced at the clock on the meeting room wall. Eleven minutes after eleven. Her chest tightened in an involuntary twist.
Eleven eleven, make a wish. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.
She swallowed hard. Right now, she wished Ben Westmore would stop staring at her. The look of nervousness on his face made her want to reassure him everything would be okay. What the hell was wrong with her? She cleared her throat. “Let’s get started. I’m sure my client will be here shortly,” she said, opening her briefcase and removing the paperwork.
Across from her, Kevin Sanders put his cell phone away and opened his laptop. “First of all”—he turned the screen to face her—“this footage of my client is inconclusive.”
She stopped him with a cock of her head. “It might not be a clear shot of your client’s face on the chapel’s security cam footage, but any hockey fan would recognize the man in this video as Mr. Westmore.” Westmore. Even his name rolled off her tongue like honey.
“It’s inconclusive,” Kevin repeated.
“It’s him.” She reached for her list of Ben’s teammates. “But if you insist, I’m happy to subpoena the guys from the team who were with him that night. I’m sure someone can verify the footage.”
“Not necessary—it’s me,” Ben said. “Don’t drag the guys into it.”
Admirable and honest. She really didn’t need him adding any more to the “pro” column. Her job was much easier when the soon-to-be-ex-husband was an asshole.
“Ben, as your lawyer…”
The player turned to his counsel. “I don’t want all of this affecting the team or getting back to Coach,” he said. “Everyone is stressed enough with the semifinals starting.”
If Ben thought he was going to be able to keep this divorce case private, he was delusional. She was surprised that the media hadn’t grabbed hold of it already. They would. Especially now that the Avalanche had made it into the semifinal round of the playoffs. She didn’t follow hockey, but her boss was a sports fanatic. Last week he’d shown up at the office
wearing his Avalanche jersey and a big foam finger, not having made it home to change after a night celebrating the series win. He was going to be pissed when he found out who her opposition was in this case.
She’d applied for the position at the firm ten months ago, when her aunt got sick and she moved to Colorado to take care of her. Her boss, Lyle Kingsley, had hired her, expecting she’d develop her client list on the other side of the proceedings—representing the athletes. But so far, only their spouses were interested in her services. And he’d reluctantly agreed to allow her to accept the cases she knew how to win. But sliding this one past him would be a challenge.
“I admit that it is me in the video,” Ben said, breaking into her thoughts. “But I’d like to keep this quiet.”
“That’s not my job nor my concern,” she started.
“Please, Ms. Davis.”
The gaze locked on hers was free of any pretense, any cockiness, of anything other than desperation. So unexpected, so different than most arrogant, cocky athletes she sat across from that it caused her to stumble slightly. Looking away quickly, she flipped through her file. “I won’t leak information, but I can’t promise my client will stay silent throughout this process.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“So, moving on,” Kevin said, oblivious to the slight ground shake she’d felt in that odd moment with his client.
It had to be the hormone injections the fertility clinic had given her. It was the only logical explanation for the unhealthy, unsafe attraction she was experiencing for a man completely off-limits for so many reasons.
“As per my client’s statement, before the night of December thirty-first, he had never met Ms. Sullivan. Therefore, her statement that they have known each other for over twenty years is ridiculous.”
Olivia reluctantly turned her attention to Ben. “So, you’d never met this woman until the night you married her?” She slid a photo of her client toward him, forcing her hand steady.
He glanced at it and shook his head. “Never.”
Wow. That almost sounded truthful. But it had to be a lie. How drunk would a person have to be to marry someone they’d just met? The thought helped to dampen the intensity of her attraction. Good. Focus on his perceivable flaws—lacks good judgment and drinks too much. “She claims you two met in school years ago.”
He repeated her name several times and shook his head. “We had a small class in Glenwood—maybe twelve students. I don’t remember her because I’d never met her before.” His voice took on more confidence now. “Obviously she recognized who I was, saw that I was shit-faced drunk, and took advantage of the situation.”
“Exactly,” Kevin jumped in. “And if she wanted a relationship with my client, why did she wait four months before coming forward?”
“That’s not accurate. Ms. Sullivan”—who still hadn’t shown up—“attempted to contact Mr. Westmore numerous times over the last few months.” Pulling out her client’s phone and email records, she slid them across the boardroom table.
Ben’s eyes scanned quickly. “This email address is monitored by the team. It’s screened for weirdos before legitimate fan mail is forwarded on to players or their fan club managers,” he said, reading the emails supposedly for the first time. “I’ve never seen these before, and I’m pretty certain they wouldn’t have been forwarded to me anyway.”
Unfortunately, that all made sense. “What about the telephone calls and texts?”
He glanced at the phone record. “Shortly after Vegas, I had to change my phone number.” He shifted in his seat.
“To avoid my client’s calls?”
“No. Because an angry one-night stand tweeted my phone number.”
Wow. “Can you prove that? Can your cell provider confirm the number was changed?”
He nodded.
Next to him, Kevin made a note to get the evidence.
She sighed. This wasn’t going exactly as she’d planned or hoped. Being able to validate his silence throughout her client’s attempts at contact didn’t go in her favor, but she still didn’t believe they didn’t have the shared history her client was so adamant about. She glanced toward the boardroom door again. Where the hell was Kristina? “Okay, so according to you, alcohol was to blame that night? You have no recollection of that evening’s events, and you had no former connection to Ms. Sullivan other than a hook-up on December thirty-first of last year?” She was stalling, but until her client showed up she had little else to try to nail him with to further their case. Nail him. The choice of wording in her thoughts made her blush.
Ben’s intense gaze locked with hers and made her cheeks feel like they were on fire. “I don’t know this woman.”
Damn. Had someone turned up the heat in there? She resisted the urge to remove her suit jacket. “Well…”
“Call from Rebecca, red head, long legs…Call from Rebecca…”
Ben quickly silenced the call coming in on his cell phone.
Obviously he’d dared to give out his new number. “As opposed to Rebecca with short legs?”
“What? He knows more than one Rebecca—hardly a crime,” Sanders said.
Ben released a breath. “She put her number in my phone that way…It was joke.”
The door opened and her assistant, Madison, poked her head inside. “Ms. Sullivan is here,” she said.
Thank God.
She saw Ben sit straighter, clenching his hands together in front of him. “Let her in, please.”
Kristina looked just as nervous as she entered the room and approached the table, clutching her purse strap. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “I had to drop my son off at school.”
“You have a kid?” Kevin asked.
Ben’s knuckles turned white.
Olivia usually loved the element of surprise, but today it made her stomach turn. Dragging a kid into this mess only made things more complicated. “Yes. Your client has a new stepson,” she said, the words tasting sour on her lips.
“Fuck,” Ben muttered, not quietly enough. Then leaning across the table, he glared at Kristina. “Look, I don’t know what you want. But I don’t know you. So whatever game you’re playing needs to end.”
Kristina’s expression was slightly embarrassed as she retrieved an old elementary school class photo from her oversized purse. She slid it across the table toward him. “Clueless Kristina, Tubby Tina?”
Ben’s mouth dropped at the mention of the nasty nicknames. A look of recognition registered on his face.
“Care to retract your last statement, Mr. Westmore?” Olivia asked.
Chapter 3
Three hours later, Ben swung open the door to his family home in Glenwood Falls. The familiar smell of homemade bread, fresh from the oven, reached him, but today he found no comfort in it. Little had changed in the house over the years—from the lace curtains his grandmother had made hanging in the living room windows to the family pictures they had taken each fall lined up on the wall in the hallway. The hardwood floor still held the evidence of indoor hockey games played when their parents weren’t home, and the furniture had been reupholstered so many times his mother could have refurnished the entire house for the amount she’d spent holding on to the old stuff. Coming home was usually a far too rare occurrence, and one he looked forward to, but today he was on a mission.
“Mom!” he called as he made his way toward the kitchen.
She collided with him rounding the corner. “Ben? What are you doing here?” She wiped damp hands on her apron and reached out to pull him in for a hug.
When she held on a little too long, he pried himself away. “Hi, Mom.”
“I didn’t think you were coming by until family dinner on…”
The last Sunday of the month. The one day he and Asher both made an effort to be in town, so the entire family could get together. “I know. I just needed to get something.”
His mother’s perceptive eyes bored a hole through his. “What’s wrong?”
“N
othing.” Too quick.
“Right. Because you always drive out here just to visit during playoff season.”
“You’re not happy to see me?” Okay, now he was stalling.
She swiped a dishtowel at him, zapping his arm.
“Ow! That’ll leave a welt,” he said, massaging the spot.
“I’ll be happier to see you when you’re carrying a big silver cup,” she said with a look.
“That hurts even more,” he grumbled. His family certainly kept him humble. Being so close to a cup win twice before and not hoisting it in victory, he’d never live it down if it happened a third time. Oddly enough, the family didn’t put the same pressure on Ash. Curse of being the oldest son.
“You know I’d welcome a visit from my favorite son anytime…”
He scoffed. She gave each of his brothers the same story. To claim the title of favorite son, he just needed to be the one standing there.
“But I know you’re supposed to be at practice right now, so what are you doing here?” She placed her hands on her hips and waited.
She still knew how to make him feel guilty for skipping practice with a simple look. The one that said, I’m not mad, I’m disappointed. Disappointed was always so much worse…and his latest antics were sure to earn another disapproving look. “I just wanted to take a look through some of the boxes in the attic.” He knew his mother was the one person besides his lawyer he could trust with the knowledge about his current mess, but he also knew she was the one person on the planet who didn’t believe his “I’m never settling down” story. The last thing he needed was his mother getting excited for absolutely nothing. He had no intentions of staying married to Kristina Sullivan.
He still couldn’t believe the woman who had sat across from him in the boardroom hours before was Clueless Kristina, Tubby Tina, and countless other mean-spirited names he knew her as—a girl he’d gone to school with when his family still lived in Denver. He’d attended kindergarten through grade three at Red Oak Elementary, before his parents moved the family to Glenwood Falls and he’d switched schools.
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