by Savanna Fox
She pulled up at the security gate to an underground parking lot. “We’re here. How do we get in?”
He opened his eyes, pulled a key ring out of his pocket, and pressed a button on a fob.
The gate lifted and she drove in and parked in a guest spot.
Inside the elevator, he hit the button for the thirtieth—and top—floor. “Thanks for doing this.” He glanced at her, then away again, looking uncomfortable.
Her heart softened. Poor Mr. Tough Guy, hating to admit weakness. Little did he know, she was flattered that he would reveal his vulnerability to her and ask for her help. It made him even more appealing. And, though she was still traumatized by the attack, she would be there for him the way he’d been there for her.
He sure looked the worse for wear, his hair messed up, that lovely jersey stained with blood and dirt. His nose had begun to swell, his left eye was puffing, and a bruise was coming up. He looked like a total bad boy, which shouldn’t appeal to a woman like her and yet it did. In a very sexual way.
How could she think about sex at a time like this, when she could have been seriously hurt and when Woody was injured and in pain— and all because she’d been silly enough to park her car on the street rather than in the hotel’s nice, safe underground lot?
On the thirtieth floor, she realized there were only four apartments. Penthouse apartments, it dawned on her.
When he unlocked the door and she stepped inside, the windows drew her. Such an incredible view. She oriented herself, realizing his apartment was on the northeast corner. The living room windows showcased downtown Vancouver, Coal Harbour, and False Creek. Scattered across the dark nightscape was the yellow gleam of dozens of lit-up windows. But the darkness reminded her of the street, of the man who’d come out of the shadows, light glinting off the blade of his knife.
Shivering, she hugged her arms around her body and turned her back to the windows.
The room was filled with relatively masculine furniture, heavy on the leather, a large TV, a sound system, and a few large paintings of winter landscapes featuring frozen lakes.
Subconsciously, she’d expected a small, messy, bachelor pad. Woody didn’t act like the typical rich person, and she’d almost forgotten about the money he earned. “What a lovely place.”
“Thanks. I like lots of space.” He caught the hem of his caramel-colored jersey in both hands and peeled the shirt upward.
Unable to look away, Georgia tracked its progress as it cleared his lean waist, rose up his six-pack, and revealed the lower curves of his pecs. The sight of blood matting the dark curls of chest hair brought her back to reality, and she hugged her body more tightly, wishing she was wearing a heavy sweater rather than a flimsy shawl.
When his face emerged from the crumpled fabric, lines of pain bracketed his mouth. “I need a shower. Get yourself a drink; put on some music.”
“All right.”
As he walked from the room, his movements were slower and less fluid than usual. Her fault. This was all her fault. Yes, she could use a drink. A double shot of something strong, something that might warm her frozen body.
A couple of minutes later, she heard the distant thrum of a shower. She imagined Woody, naked and sleek under the spray. His golden-brown skin wet, drops of water tracking down the center of his body.
She shouldn’t be thinking of him this way. The man was hurt, and he’d quite possibly saved her life.
A long, cold shiver rippled through her body. Alone for the first time, she relived those moments by her car. She’d been utterly terrified, facing that mugger with the knife. She couldn’t even draw a breath and call out for help.
But Woody’d known, somehow. He’d been there. If he hadn’t—
No, she couldn’t think about that.
She hurried to the kitchen, all silver and black, and checked the freezer to make sure he had an ice pack. In fact, there were assorted ice packs and a bunch of ice cubes. No chocolate ice cream, like in her freezer, just some frozen veggies, a steak, and a couple of packages of chicken breasts.
Clutching her shawl around her shoulders, she opened the fridge door, then didn’t know why she’d done it. She stared at a carton of milk, juice, electrolyte drinks, eggs, multigrain bread, loads of fruit and vegetables, and a bottle of champagne. Champagne? Not, likely, for drinking on his own. That was probably his “date night” drink.
How many women had he brought to this penthouse, fed champagne, and taken to bed?
And why should that thought give her a pang of jealousy? If she wanted sex with Woody, she could have it. He’d made that pretty damned clear. And it would be utterly meaningless to him, not even a blip on his radar. It wouldn’t be a distraction, and he wouldn’t care if it was unprofessional.
No, she didn’t want to be one in a long string of notches on his hockey stick. Maybe instead they could be friends.
She opened a couple of cupboards at random, finding a half dozen bottles of alcohol, and chose brandy. She didn’t care for it, but it would warm her. She poured a couple of ounces into a glass and took a hefty slug, grimacing as the fiery taste nipped at her mouth and throat, then burned a path through her body.
Back in the living room, it was impossible not to glance out the windows. The landscape was glittery and golden, but there were dark spots too. Dark places where danger lurked. The kind of danger she’d faced less than an hour ago.
She wished Woody would hurry up. She didn’t like being alone.
She took another drink and headed over to the sound system. Music, she needed music. Something with vocals, words that would fill up her mind so she couldn’t think about what had happened. Couldn’t remember how terrified and helpless she’d felt. If she let herself think about that, she might fall apart. She could feel it inside her despite the alcohol—a trembling tension that told her she was close to the breaking point.
Georgia drew a ragged breath and determinedly studied the array of black boxes and silver dials. Woody’s system looked more complicated than the instrument panel for a jet, not that she’d ever seen one. “I can work this out,” she muttered, and concentrated on the task.
“You figure out how to work that thing?” Woody’s voice, coming from behind her, made her start. Her finger inadvertently jabbed a button, and the haunting notes of a saxophone poured into the room. He must’ve had a CD in the player.
“I guess so.” She turned to face him.
Oh, my. He wore a terry-cloth bathrobe in a rich shade of royal blue a little darker than his eyes. The fabric was thick and bunchy, and even though it hid much of his body he still looked impossibly sexy. Maybe it was the damp, uncombed hair, or the vee of brown chest, or the well-shaped calves on display below the knee-length robe.
Was he naked under there?
That sax music was sexy and suggestive. It made her think of untying that loosely knotted belt, peeling back the sides of his robe, and all sorts of other things she had no business thinking. “What’s that CD?” she blurted.
“Not sure. Haven’t had music on for a while.”
Dragging her gaze off him, she opened the cabinet and found an empty CD case on top of a stack. “Sax for Lovers. To go along with the champagne, and set the mood for seduction.” She should replace the record with something less sultry, but she liked it.
“You got it.” He walked to the kitchen, returned with a couple of ice packs, and sank into an armchair.
“How do you feel?”
“I’ve felt a hell of a lot worse.” A flicker of pain creased his forehead. “Got a doozy of a headache coming on. Better take something before it gets worse.”
He made as if to get up and Georgia said, “No, I’ll get it. Tell me what, and where.”
“Thanks.”
On his instructions, she walked down the hall, past a room that, as she glanced through the door, seemed to be full of hockey trophies and pictures, and into a plainly furnished bedroom. Seeing the huge bed, she tried not to think about how many women he
’d pleasured there.
The en suite bathroom was done in terra-cotta tile, and featured a huge whirlpool tub. The steam from his shower had dissipated but there was still a moist, warm quality to the air. Balmy, tropical. And a tangy herbal scent from his soap or shampoo.
His discarded clothes lay in a heap on the floor and a thick navy bath sheet hung crookedly on a towel rack. Georgia touched it, felt its dampness, thought of it rubbing Woody’s body. All over. Reluctantly, she drew her fingers away.
He had told her to look in the cabinet by the sink. She saw all manner of liniments and bandages as well as the usual supplies: spare soap, toilet paper, toothpaste, toothbrushes. A large box of condoms.
Another reminder of the kind of man he was. A man who, even though he might be a surprisingly pleasant dinner companion, was the polar opposite of her beloved Anthony when it came to his views on sex and love.
She located the correct bottle, filled a glass with water, and returned to the living room.
Woody lifted an ice pack from his face. “Get lost in there?”
“I couldn’t find the right pills.”
“Sure.” He took the medicine and handed the glass back to her. “It’s okay; it’s human nature.”
“What?”
“Snooping.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Yeah, you were.” He shrugged, and winced. “If I ask you to do something, will you keep quiet about it?”
What now? “Uh, I guess that depends what it is.”
He held out the second ice pack he’d brought from the kitchen. “Help me get into this thing.”
When she took it, she realized it wasn’t a pack, but a shoulder wrap.
“If you say anything to anyone about this, I’ll have to kill you.” The words were joking, but she heard the seriousness behind them.
“It’s our secret,” she said as she helped him strap it around his left shoulder. “How bad is it?”
“Nothing major. Dislocated it a while back and it keeps getting smashed again. Can’t seem to get it healed. It was doing great until that mugger tackled me.”
“I’m sorry. It was all my fault.”
He eyed her. “You gotta be careful, Georgia.”
“I know.” She went over to the couch and perched on the edge, clasping her hands in her lap. When she stared down at them, she noticed flecks of dried blood on her fingers, from where she’d helped Woody clean up from his nosebleed.
No, she couldn’t think about that, or she’d have a meltdown. She could feel it inside, hovering. She wouldn’t break down in front of Woody. He’d been through enough tonight.
She shifted restlessly on the couch and something rustled under the couch cushion. She slid her hand down the crack, located the something, and pulled it out. A condom. “I should have known.” Familiarity had brought a degree of composure, and this time she didn’t drop the little package. “You really are prepared for female visitors, aren’t you?” she teased, stuffing it back where she’d found it. Leaving it out might only give him—or her—ideas.
“Guy’s got to be prepared for the best,” he joked back.
She shook her head tolerantly. “You may have the morals of an alley cat, but at least you’re smart enough to use protection.”
He threw his chest out in that blustery way characteristic of the male of virtually any species. “I’ve never had unprotected sex in my life,” he said proudly.
“You’ve never had sex without a condom?” she asked in disbelief.
“Never. I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks.”
She stared wide-eyed. “You’ll go up against two muggers in an alley, but you won’t make love to a woman without a condom?”
He shifted in his chair. “Right.”
“But …” No, she really shouldn’t have this conversation with him.
“But what? I can’t believe a smart woman like you believes in unprotected sex.”
“No, not when it’s, uh, casual sex.” Which, of course, was all he ever had. “Yes, all right, I get it. You’re right. It’s just that when you love someone, when you’re in a committed relationship, you don’t want anything between you.”
He cocked his head. “It’d take a lot to trust someone that much.”
With Anthony, she’d never had a moment’s doubt. “When you find someone special, your soul mate, it’s different,” she said softly. “There’s love, trust, intimacy, and the lovemaking is amazing.” That feeling of joining together, becoming one, had been … “Transcendent,” she murmured.
Woody shifted position, and winced.
She came back to earth, and remembered something else. While the lovemaking had been transcendent, it hadn’t been orgasmic. Only this man, this self-proclaimed tough guy, had brought her to climax. It made no sense at all.
“You should go home, Georgia,” he said, his voice sounding tired and flat. “I’m fine, honest.”
“You’re concussed.”
“No, I’m not.”
Uh-oh. “You’re acting disoriented,” she pointed out. “Earlier, you said you might have a concussion, and now you say you don’t. That’s one of the symptoms, right? Disorientation?”
“I didn’t hit my head when I fell. Just go.”
Men didn’t like having you around when they were sick. If Woody was feeling worse, that was all the more reason she shouldn’t leave. “You said it all happened so quickly you didn’t remember the details.”
Nor did she. It had been like something out of an action movie, except it had been real. The knife; her panic. Woody suddenly being there, kicking and punching. The sickening sound of bone breaking. Nausea surged in her stomach and she fought it down.
“Did you have to hurt them so badly?” Her voice sounded accusatory, which was unfair, but it had all been so terrible, including the sight of those two men writhing on the ground.
Woody gazed at her from the eye that wasn’t covered by the ice pack. “Guess I don’t know my own strength.”
“Oh, come on! After playing hockey all your life?”
“Georgia, I’m not a violent guy.” He lowered the ice pack and frowned at her.
Not like his father, he meant. And yet, having seen him lay into those muggers, and seeing the way he threw his body at other players on the ice, she found herself wondering. She slugged down some more brandy, hoping the burn would quiet her nerves and settle her stomach.
Fiercely, he said, “I know how to gauge things. Hockey has rules, discipline.”
“I guess so.” She really wanted him to convince her.
“I don’t react out of anger.” He reapplied the ice pack to his face and sat back in the chair, crossing his legs, ankle over knee the way men do. The bathrobe split, revealing a portion of his thighs. “I don’t use more force than necessary.”
She was almost too focused on his words to ogle his thighs. Almost.
“I don’t get off on beating up on someone,” he said grimly.
“Tonight …”
“That first guy had a knife and I had to disable him. When the second guy attacked, I didn’t know how many more there were. I had to stop him, quickly, and be ready to take on someone else.” He looked very male, an easy inhabitant of a physical world of strength and violence that was foreign to her.
Georgia’s whole body trembled. She tried to control the quivering by sitting very straight, pressing her knees together, and clasping her hands tightly. “Were you afraid?”
“No. There wasn’t time for that.” He studied her. “Were you afraid?”
His words triggered the tension in her body. “Terrified!” She rose jerkily and moved away, trying not to glance out the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over False Creek. “I’ve never had anyone threaten me. I’ve never been hit; my mom never even spanked me.” A shrill edge of hysteria had crept into her voice and her muscles twitched as she relived her panic.
She turned to face Woody. The whole room was between them.
He took the
ice pack from his face and put it down, then rose and came to stand in front of her. Gently he said, “It’s okay, Georgia. Nothing happened.”
“But it did.” She raised a shaking hand to touch his swollen nose. The shawl slid off her shoulders to the floor, but she didn’t pick it up.
“It did!” She said it again, her voice breaking. Her whole body shuddered violently as she reexperienced the terror.
Quickly, Woody put his arms around her and tugged her to him. Not tight, but warm, gentle, and comforting. That gentleness was her undoing, or maybe it was the ice wrap on his shoulder, a silent reminder of what they’d been through. Tears choked the back of her throat.
A sob burst out, and then she was crying in earnest.
He didn’t say anything. He just held her, resting his chin on the top of her head and stroking soothing circles on her back.
Finally, the tears slowed. She sniffled. “If you hadn’t been there …”
“I was.” His lips were on her hair.
She didn’t step out of the circle of his arms, but pulled back to lift her head and look up at his battered face. “I’ve never felt so helpless. I hate the idea of being dependent on a man.”
“You’re right. Women should be independent.”
Why did that surprise her? She knew he wasn’t really a Neanderthal. “Tell that to my mom,” she said ruefully.
“Or mine.” His voice was chilly.
An abusive father? A dependent mom who wouldn’t leave him? Was that the truth of Woody’s childhood? Did she dare ask?
“Here’s what you need to do,” Woody said firmly. “It’ll give you power and confidence.”
“That sounds good.”
“Take self-defense lessons.”
“I’m not the most athletic person in the world,” she said doubtfully.
“You’ll do fine.” He sounded as if he believed it.
Maybe she could believe it too. “I’ll look into it. If I research some places, could you help me pick the best one?”
“Glad to. I want you to be safe.”
He could be so sweet. She couldn’t stop herself from resting her head against his chest again. His bathrobe had shifted and now her cheek touched his bare skin, felt the tickle of crisp curls of hair. Was it horrible of her to enjoy this, to want more of it? To need this closeness and, yes, to feel aroused? It had been a unique night and her emotions were on overload.
