Chelsea Ross knows she’s a great actress. Which is lucky, as she’s just got the toughest role of her life!
Washed up from Hollywood and in serious need of cash, Chelsea jumps at the $10,000 opportunity to act as ‘carer’ to famous hockey player Mark Bressler, injured after a car crash. After all, how hard can it be to play nice and pick up after an incredibly hot invalid in need of her tender loving care? Just three months of playing nurse and the cash is hers.
But Mark Bressler doesn’t need help. The moody hockey player’s glory days may be over, but he has no intention of letting anyone aid his recovery, least of all the maddeningly cheerful Chelsea. He’s determined to get her to quit – and Mark isn’t the type to give in. But then, neither is Chelsea …
More brilliantly funny and red-hot sexy drama from the fabulous Rachel Gibson
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Extract from What I Love About You
About the Author
Also by Rachel Gibson
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA
www.transworldbooks.co.uk
Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in the United States of America by Avon Books
First published in Great Britain by Corgi Books
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Rachel Gibson 2011
Extract from What I Love About You © Rachel Gibson 2014
Rachel Gibson has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
In this work of fiction, the characters, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or they are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781446464021
ISBN 9780552164481
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
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Rachel Gibson’s storytelling career began at the age of sixteen when she ran her Chevy Vega into the side of a hill, retrieved the bumper and broken glass from the ground, and drove to her High School parking lot. With the help of her friend, she strategically scattered the broken pieces and told her parents she’d been the victim of a hit and run. They believed her, and she’s been telling stories ever since.
Rachel has three children and still lives in her native Boise, Idaho. When not writing, she can be found boating on Payette Lake with Mr Gibson, shopping for shoes, or forcing her love on an ungrateful cat.
Visit her at www.rachelgibson.com
Have you read all of Rachel Gibson’s irresistible novels?
Read on for an extract from What I Love About You . . .
Chapter One
It’s just us. Grab me by the neck and swallow me whole.
Blake Junger wrapped his hands around the thick arms of the Adirondack chair and pushed farther against the back. Desire twisted his stomach, and his muscles hardened. He let out a slow, ragged breath and turned his gaze to the smooth lake. Spiky pine and ponderosa threw jagged shade across his lawn, the wet sandy beach, and the wooden dock floating on the emerald lake. The tops of the trees swayed in an unusually warm October breeze, and the scent of pine forest filled his nose, so strong he could almost taste it. “You’re living in God’s country now,” his realtor had told him when he’d moved into the house in Truly, Idaho, a little over a week ago. The home was four thousand square feet of beautifully crafted wood, its floor-to-ceiling windows reflecting the emerald lake, the deeper green forest, and the brilliant blue sky. It sat on the edge of a small development of homes and had five acres of dense forest on the undeveloped side.
He’d needed a place. A lair. A place to invest a pile of money with good tax benefits. He’d seen this multimillion-dollar property on a Realtor’s site, and he’d called and made an offer from his mother’s pool deck in Tampa.
He’d trained for high-altitude winter warfare in some of the most frozen and rugged places in the country, one of his favorites being the Idaho Sawtooth mountain range. Blake could live anywhere in the county, but he’d chosen this property on the edge of the wilderness for two reasons: (1) the tax write-offs, and (2) the solitude. The fact that it had a lake in the backyard had sealed the deal.
His parents thought he’d been impulsive. His brother understood. If Truly didn’t prove to be an anchor, he would untether and move on.
You want me.
Want and need. Love and hate clogged his chest and dry throat, and he swallowed past the urge to give in. To just say fuck it and give up. He might be living in God’s country, but God wasn’t paying much attention to Blake Junger these days.
No one will know.
Less than a handful of people even knew where he lived, and he liked it that way. From his time spent on rooftops in Iraq, he’d once lived with a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty placed on his head by Al-Qaeda. Blake was certain the bounty had expired years ago, but even if it hadn’t, he wasn’t worried about terrorists in Idaho. Hell, a lot of U.S. citizens thought Idaho was in the Midwest next to Iowa anyway. He was much more worried that his well-intentioned family would pop up and camp out in his living room. Watching to make sure he didn’t fuck up and end up on his face somewhere.
I’ll warm you up. Make you feel good.
Blake returned his gaze to a bottle sitting on the wood cable spool a few feet from his left foot. Sunlight touched the neck and shone through the amber liquid inside. Johnnie Walker. His best friend. The constant that never changed. The one thing in the world he could count on. The hot splash in his mouth. The kick and punch to his throat and stomach. The warmth spreading across his flesh and the buzz in his head. He loved it. Loved it more than friends and family. More than his job and latest mission. More than women and sex. He’d given up a lot for Johnnie. Then Johnnie had gone and turned on him. Johnnie was a big lie.
I’m not the enemy.
Blake had faced enemies before. In Iraq, Afghanistan, Africa, and too many shithole countries to count. He’d faced and conquered those enemies. He had a footlocker full of medals and commendations. He’d been shot twice, had screws in his knee, and had fractured his feet and ankles more times than he could recall. He’d served his country without regret or remorse. When he retired from the battlefield, he thought he’d left the enemy behind. Thought he was done fighting, but he was wrong. This enemy was deeper and darker than any he had faced before.
You can stop after one drink.
It whispered lies and plagued his waking hours. It lived in his soul. It had a bounty on his life. A bounty he couldn’t ignore. There was no getting away from it. No leave. No passes. No stand-down time. No hiding in the dark as it passed him by. No dialing in his scope to take it out. Like the enemies he’d faced on the battlefield, if he did not defeat it, he would die. No doubt about it, but the problem was, he craved the taste of this particular death in his mouth.
You don’t have a problem.
Out of all the things that had been hammered into his head at the fancy rehab his brother had forced him into, one of the things he did believe was that if he did not stop, he would lose his life. He’d been through too much to be taken out by a bottle of Johnnie. Too much to let his addiction win.
The craving rolled through him and he set his jaw against it. His addiction doctors and counselors had preached avoidance, but that wasn’t Blake’s way. He didn’t avoid demons. He faced them head-on. He didn’t need a twelve-step program or daily meetings. He was not powerless over his addiction. He was Special Warfare Operator First Class Blake Junger. Retired from SEAL Team Six, and one of the deadliest snipers in the history of warfare. That wasn’t a brag, just a fact. To admit he was powerless would be admitting defeat. There was no quit, no giving up. Those words were not in a Junger’s vocabulary. Not in his or his twin brother, Beau’s. They’d been raised to win. To push themselves and each other. To be the best at everything. To follow in the famous footsteps of their father, Captain William T. Junger, a legend in the SEAL teams. The old man had earned a tough reputation in Vietnam and Grenada and countless other clandestine engagements. He was a tough warrior, loyal to the teams and his country, and he expected his sons to follow. Blake had done what had been expected of him while Beau had signed with the Marine Corps just to spite the old man.
At the time, Blake had been pissed at his brother. All their lives they’d talked about serving in the teams together, but Beau had stormed off and joined the jarheads. In hindsight, it was a blessing that they’d served in different branches.
They were monozygotic twins, had split from the same egg, and were so alike they could pass one for the other. They were not different sides of the same coin. They were identical sides, and it was no surprise that each had signed up for sniper school in their respective branches. No surprise that each earned a reputation for his accuracy and lethal shots, but when it came to numbers, Blake had more confirmed kills.
The brothers had always been competitive. Their mother claimed that even in the womb they’d fought each other for more room. At the age of five, Beau had been the faster swimmer, had won blue ribbons while Blake had won red. Second place spurred Blake on to work harder, and the next year the two traded places on the winner’s podium. In high school, if Blake won more wrestling matches one season, his brother worked to win more the next, and because they were identical twins, people compared the two in more than looks. Beau was the smart one. Blake was the strong one. Beau ran faster. Blake was the charming one. A day later, the script would flip and Blake would be smarter and faster. But no matter how many times the comparisons spun in opposite directions, Blake had always been the more charming twin. Even Beau conceded that win.
If they’d both been SEALs, people would have just naturally compared their service. They would have compared numbers and missions and ranks. While the brothers were extremely proud of their service, and the American lives they’d saved with their deadly shots, a man’s death, even that of an insurgent hell-bent on killing Americans, just wasn’t something they felt the need to compete over. Neither had crouched in the shadows of a shithole hut or rocky crag, alternately sweating like whores in church or freezing his nuts off, thinking he needed to compete. Both knew that numbers were more a matter of opportunity than skill, although neither would ever confess that out loud.
Since Beau’s retirement from the Marines, he’d started a personal security company. Beau was the successful one. The settled one. The one getting married. Beau was the one who’d used his skills to create opportunity for fellow retired military personnel.
And Blake was the drunk. Since his retirement from the Navy a year ago, he was the one who’d used his skills to make money as a hired gun. He worked for a private military security firm, and he was the one who’d hopped from hot spot to hostage situation. From country to open seas, living a seemly unsettled life.
And Blake was the one who’d needed rehab to face his biggest demon. Like all enemies, he’d faced it head-on, only to discover that the consequence of sobriety was that at any moment, a flash or smell or sound could spin his clear and sober head around. That a flash in sunlight, or the smell of dust and sweat, or a high-pitched whistle could crawl up his spine and stop him in his tracks. Could make him drop and look for something that wasn’t there. The flashbacks didn’t happen often and didn’t last more than a few seconds, but they always left him disoriented and edgy. Angry at his loss of control.
He looked at the bottle of Johnnie. At the blue and gold label and sun filtering through the rare scotch whisky. He’d paid three hundred dollars for the bottle of booze, and he craved it in the pit of his stomach. It tugged and pulled at his insides, and the sharp edge of need cut across his skin.
One drink. Calm the craving. Dull the sharp edges.
Blake’s knuckle popped as he tightened his grasp on the chair.
Just one more. You can stop tomorrow.
The craving grew stronger, pinching his skull. Wasn’t day sixty-two supposed to be easier than day one? His stomach rolled and his ears buzzed in his head. He picked up the camera by his hip and stood. He wrapped the black and yellow strap around his forearm and pointed his Nikon SLR at Johnnie. Six months ago, he’d stared down the scope of a bolt-action TAC–338 in Mexico City with two corrupt Mexican police officers sharing his crosshairs. These days, he shot his enemy with a camera. He looked through the viewfinder and dialed up the bottle. His hands shook and he tightened his grasp.
“What are you doing?”
Blake spun around and almost dropped the camera. “Holy fuck!” A little girl in a pink shirt and long blond ponytail stood behind his chair. “Where in the hell did you come from?” He’d lost his touch if a little kid could sneak up on him.
With her thumb she pointed next door. “You said two bad words.”
He scrubbed his face with one hand and lowered the camera by the strap to his chair. She’d scared the shit out of him, and that wasn’t easy to do. “And you’re trespassing.”
She scrunched up her nose. “What’s that mean?”
He’d never been around kids and couldn’t even guess her age. She was about as tall as his navel and had big blue eyes. “Trespass?”
“Yeah.”
“It means you’re in my yard.”
“I know it’s your yard.” She actually rolled those blue eyes at him. “I saw you move in.”
A five-foot stretch of pine and underbrush separated the two properties, and he glanced at the neighboring yard through the trees. The woman living there was working in the flower garden that she had managed to scratch out of the forest. Ass-up in pink and purple flowers, her shorts rode up just high enough to show the naked curve of her butt. He’d noticed her before today. He might be a drunk, white-knuckling sixty-two days’ sobriety, but he was still a man. A man who appreciated a nice ass pointed his way. He’d never seen the woman’s face. Just the back of her blond head and her sweet butt cheeks.
“What’s your name?”
He turned his attention back toward the child and wondered if he should feel guilty for having sexual thoughts about the kid’s mama. “Blake.” He didn’t feel guilty. He just wondered if he should feel guilty. “Is that your mom?”
“Yeah. She’s not at the store today.”
He couldn’t recall hearing a man’s voice coming from next door as he’d studied the mom’s butt. “Where’s your dad?”
“He doesn’t live with us.” She swung her arms from side to side. “I don’t like bees.”
He frowned down at the little squid in front of him. He didn’t know what bees had to do with anything, but after sixty-two days, nausea rolled through him like it was the first. He felt like he might puke and dropped his shaking hands to his hips.
“You’re weally weally big.”
He was a little over six foot and weighed two-twenty. In the past few months he’d dropped twenty pounds. One of the last times he’d seen his twin, his brother had called Blake “a pudgy fucker.” They’d been slugging it out at the time. Arguing over who was the better shot and the toughest superhero, Batman or Superman. Beau had been wrong about Superman but right about the fat. After Blake had retired from the teams, he’d had time to kill between security jobs. He’d stopped working out as much and started drinking more. “How old are you, kid?”
“Five.” Her arms fell to her side and she tossed her head. “I’m not a kid.”
Behind him Johnnie whispered, I’m still here. Waiting. Blake ignored the whisper. He needed to jog or swim. He needed to wear himself out, but that didn’t mean he’d quit and let Johnnie win. No, a warrior knew when to withdraw and come back hard.
“I’m a hoss.”
Blake moved his head from side to side as the pain in his skull thumped his brain. “What the hell’s a hoss?”
She rolled her eyes again like he was a bit slow. “A hhhooooosssss.”
Blake spoke perfect English, broken Arabic, and fluent split-fucking-infinitive. He’d never heard of a hoss.
“My name is Bow Tie.”
“Bow Tie?” What the hell kind of name was that?
“I have yellow hair with white spots.” She tossed her head again and stomped one foot. “I have a white mane and tail. I’m fancy.”
“Are you saying ‘horse’?” Jesus. She was turning the ache in his head to a stabbing pain. “You’re a horse?”
“Yes, and I’m weally fast. Do you want to see me race?”
He’d never been around kids. He didn’t even know if he liked kids. He was fairly sure he didn’t like this kid. She thought she was a “hoss,” couldn’t say some of her R’s, and looked at him like he was slow in the head. “Negative. You should go home now.”
“No. I can stay.”
“You’ve been here long enough now. Your mother is probably wondering where you are.”
“My mom won’t mind.” She stomped the ground with one sandaled foot, then took off. She ran in a big circle around Blake. She actually galloped around and around. And God help him, with her head bobbing and her ponytail flying behind her, she kind of resembled a little pony.
Around and around she ran, stopping a few times to paw at the air and neigh. “Hey kid,” he called to her, but she just tossed her head and kept going. The pull of Johnnie rode him hard and irritation broke out across his skin. He had better things to do than stand there as a weird little girl acted like a horse. Better things, like go for a jog or swim or poke himself in the eye with a stick. “Time to go home.” She pretended not to hear him. What did she call herself? “Stop, Bow Tie!”
“Say whoa, girl,” she managed between rapid breaths.
He didn’t take orders from children. He was an adult. He wanted to tear out his hair. Christ almighty. “Shit.”
Around she ran, her pale cheeks turning pink. “That was a bad word.”
Blake frowned. “Whoa, girl.”
She finally stopped directly in front of him and blew out a breath. “I went weally fast.”
“You need to run home.”
“That’s okay. I can play for …” She paused before adding, “Five moe minutes.”
He’d lived in a dirt hole and crawled through swamps. He’d eaten bugs and pissed in Gatorade bottles. For twenty years, his life had consisted of hard, rough edges. When he’d retired from the teams, he’d had to make a deliberate effort to keep the F-word out of every sentence and his hand off his nuts. He’d had to remember that in civilian life, creative swearing wasn’t a competitive sport and that ball scratching wasn’t a public event. He had to remember the manners his mother had pounded into his and Beau’s heads. Nice, polite behavior toward everyone from little kids to little old ladies. Today he wanted this kid gone before he ripped his skin off, and he chose not to remember those nice manners. He purposely narrowed his eyes and gave the kid the hard steel gaze that he’d used to make terrorists cower.
“What’s wrong with your eyes?”
She didn’t seem at all afraid. She was definitely a little slow in the head. Another time he might have taken that into consideration. “Get your ass in your own yard.”
She gasped. “You said a bad word.”
“Go home, little girl.”
She pointed at the cat on the front of her T-shirt. “I’m a big girl!”
Another day, another time, he might have admired the kid’s guts. He leaned forward and towered over her like his father used to do to him and Beau. “I shit bigger than you,” he said, just like his old man.
The kid sucked in a scandalized breath but wasn’t intimidated at all. She wasn’t shaking in her little shoes. Was there something wrong with the kid, besides her thinking she was a horse, or was he losing his touch?
“Charlotte?”
Blake and the kid spun toward the sound of a woman’s voice. She stood a few feet away, wearing a little yellow T-shirt and those shorts he’d had the privilege of seeing from behind. The shadow of a big straw hat hid her face and rested just above the bow of her full lips. Pretty mouth, nice legs, great ass. Probably something wrong with her eyes.
“Mama!” The kid ran to her mother and threw herself on the woman’s waist.
“You know you aren’t supposed to leave the yard, Charlotte Elizabeth.” The shade of her hat slid down her throat and T-shirt to her breasts as she looked down at her child. “You’re in big trouble.”
Nice-size breasts, smooth curve in her waist. Yeah, probably had funky eyes.
“That man is weally mean,” the kid wailed. “He said bad words at me.”
The sudden sobbing was so suspect he might have laughed if he was in a laughing mood. Behind him, Johnnie whispered his name, and in front, the shade of a straw hat rested on the top of a nice pair of breasts. The shadow dipped into her smooth cleavage, and lust plunged straight down Blake’s pants. He went from irritation to desire to a combination of both in the blink of an eye.
The brim of the hat rose to the bow of her lip again. “I heard him.” The corners of her mouth dipped in a disapproving frown.
His frown matched hers. He’d always avoided women like her. Women with children. Women with children were looking for daddies, and he’d never wanted kids. His or anyone else’s.
“Please don’t swear at my child.”
“Please keep your child out of my yard.” Women with children wanted men who wanted relationships. He wasn’t a relationship kind of guy. Out of all the SEAL teams, Team Six had the highest divorce rate for a reason. It was filled with men who loved to throw themselves out of airplanes and get shot out of torpedo tubes. Filled with good men who weren’t any good at relationships. Men like him, and until recently, like his brother. Men like his father, whose wives divorced them after twenty years of serial cheating.
“Fine.” Her lips pursed like she was going to hit him or kiss him. Off the top of his head, he’d guess the former. “But what kind of man talks like that to a child?”
The kind who was white-knuckling his sixty-second day of sobriety. The kind who wanted to pour some Johnnie down his throat, say fuck it, and dive face-first into soft cleavage. “What kind of mother lets her child roam around unsupervised?”
She gasped. “She was supervised.”
“Uh-huh.” He’d made her mad. Good. Now maybe she’d leave. Leave him to his fight with Johnnie and himself.
“Charlotte knows better than to leave our yard.”
He pointed out the obvious. “This isn’t your yard.”
“She’s never run off before.”
He couldn’t see her eyes, but he could feel her angry gaze. All hot and fiery. He liked hot and fiery. He liked it riding him like a banshee. Wild, screaming his name, and … Christ. His lust for Johnnie and this nameless woman made him dizzy. “Only takes once for her to get hit by a truck,” he heard himself say between clenched teeth. “I had a dog that only got out once. Bucky ended up as axle grease for a Chevy Silverado.” He shook his head. God, he’d loved that poodle. “He’d been a damn good dog, too.”
Her pink mouth opened and closed like she was speechless. Then she waved a hand at the bottle of Johnnie and obviously found her voice. “Are you drunk?”
“No. Haven’t had a drop.” He wished he could blame his erection on Johnnie.
“Then you don’t have an excuse. You’re just a … a …” She paused to cover the girl’s ears with her palms. “A raging asshole.”
She’d get no argument from him.
“I heard that,” the kid said into her mother’s stomach.
“Come on, Charlotte.” She grabbed the kid’s hand and stormed off. He could practically see the steam shooting out of her ears.
So much for being the charming twin.
He shrugged, and his gaze fell to her nice butt.
Fuck it. Charming was for nice guys, and he hadn’t felt nice for a very long time.
Also by Rachel Gibson
ANY MAN OF MINE
NOTHING BUT TROUBLE
TRUE LOVE AND OTHER DISASTERS
NOT ANOTHER BAD DATE
TANGLED UP IN YOU
I’M IN NO MOOD FOR LOVE
SEX, LIES AND ONLINE DATING
THE TROUBLE WITH VALENTINE’S DAY
DAISY’S BACK IN TOWN
SEE JANE SCORE
LOLA CARLYLE REVEALS ALL
TRUE CONFESSIONS
IT MUST BE LOVE
TRULY MADLY YOURS
SIMPLY IRRESISTIBLE
Chapter One
JUST BECAUSE A man was lucky to be alive, didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
“Last night, your hockey team won the Stanley Cup without you, how do you feel about that?”
Former NHL superstar and all-around badass Mark Bressler looked beyond the bank of microphones and wall of cameras to the dozen or so reporters filling the media room inside the Key Arena. He’d played for Seattle the past eight years, been the captain for the last six years. He’d worked for most of his life to hold the Stanley Cup over his head and feel the cold silver in his hands. He’d lived and breathed hockey since he’d laced up his first pair of skates. He’d left his blood on the ice and broken more bones than he could recall. Professional hockey was all he knew. All that he was, but last night his team won without him. He’d watched from his living room as the rotten bastards skated around with his cup. How in the hell did everyone think he felt? “Of course I wish I could have been there with the boys, but I’m thrilled for them. One-hundred-percent thrilled.”
“After your accident six months ago, the man sitting next to you was hired to fill your shoes,” a reporter said, referring to the veteran hockey player, Ty Savage, who’d replaced Mark as the Chinooks’ captain. “At the time, it was a controversial decision. What were your thoughts when you heard that Savage would take over?”
It was no secret that he and Savage didn’t like each other. The last time Mark remembered being this close to the man, he’d faced off with him during the regular season. He’d called Savage an overrated prima donna asshole. Savage had called him a second-rate wannabe pussy. Just another day at the office. “I was in a coma when Savage was signed. I don’t believe I had ‘thoughts’ about anything. At least none that I recall.”
“What are your thoughts now?”
That Savage is an overrated prima donna asshole. “That management put together a winning team. All the guys worked hard and did what they had to do to bring the cup to Seattle. Heading into the playoffs we were fifty-eight and twenty-four. I don’t have to tell you that those are impressive numbers.” He paused and carefully thought out his next sentence. “It goes without saying that the Chinooks were fortunate that Savage was available and open to the trade.” He wasn’t about to say he was grateful or the team was lucky.
The overrated prima donna asshole next to him laughed, and Mark almost liked the guy. Almost.
The reporters turned their attention to Ty. As they asked about Savage’s sudden announcement to retire the night before and his plans for the future, Mark looked down at his hand on the table before him. He’d removed the splint for the press conference, but his right middle finger was as stiff as the stainless-steel rods and pins fusing it into a permanent fuck-you.
Appropriate, that.
The reporters asked questions of the other Chinooks seated at the long press table before the questions turned back to Mark. “Bressler, are you planning a comeback?” a reporter asked.
Mark glanced up and smiled as if the question didn’t poke at his deepest wound. He looked into the man’s face and reminded himself that Jim was an okay guy—for a reporter—and he’d always been fair. For that reason, Mark didn’t hold up his right hand and show his contempt. “The docs tell me no.” Although he didn’t need doctors to confirm what he’d known the moment he’d opened his eyes in the ICU. The accident that had broken half the bones in his body had shattered his life. A comeback was out of the question. Even if he’d been twenty-eight instead of thirty-eight.
General manager Darby Hogue stepped forward. “There will always be a place in the Chinooks’ organization for Mark.”
As what? He couldn’t even drive the Zamboni. Not that it mattered. If Mark couldn’t play hockey, he didn’t want to be anywhere near the ice.
The questions turned to last night’s game, and he settled back in his chair. He wrapped his good hand around the top of the cane resting against his thigh and brushed the smooth walnut handle with his thumb. On a good day, Mark hated press conferences. This wasn’t a good day but he was here, in the belly of the Key Arena, because he didn’t want to look like a poor sport. Like a jerk who couldn’t handle seeing his team win the most coveted prize in hockey without him. Too, the owner of the team, Faith Duffy, had called him that morning and asked him to come. It was hard to say no to the woman who still paid the bills.
For the next half hour, Mark answered questions and even managed to chuckle at a few lame jokes. He waited until the last reporter filed out of the room before he tightened his grasp around his cane and pushed himself to his feet. Savage moved a chair out of his way, and Mark muttered his thanks. He even managed to sound sincere as he put one foot in front of the other and headed across the room. He picked up his usual methodical pace and made it as far as the door before the first twinge settled in his right hip. He hadn’t taken any medication that morning. He hadn’t wanted anything to dull his senses; as a result there was nothing in his system to take the edge off the pain.
His teammates slapped him on the back and told him that it was great to see him. They might have meant it. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there before he stumbled. Or worse, fell on his ass.
“It’s good to see you.” Forward Daniel Holstrom caught up with him in the hall.
His thigh started to cramp and sweat broke out on his forehead. “You too.” He’d spent the past six years on the front line with Daniel. He’d initiated Daniel his rookie season. The last thing he wanted was to collapse in front of the Stromster or anyone else.
“Some of us are headed to Floyd’s. Join us.”
“Another time.”
“We’ll probably go out tonight. I’ll call you.”
Of course they were going out. They’d won the cup the night before. “I have plans,” he lied. “But I’ll meet up with you soon.”
Daniel stopped. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he called after Mark.
Mark nodded and took a deep breath. God, just let him get to the car before his body gave out.
He was beginning to think God was actually listening until a short woman with dark hair caught up with him at the exit.
“Mr. Bressler,” she began, keeping pace with him. “I’m Bo from the PR department.”
His senses might be dulled by the pain, but he knew who she was. The guys on the team called her the Mini Pit Bull, Mini Pit for short, and for good reason.
“I’d like to speak with you. Do you have a few moments?”
“No.” He kept walking. One foot in front of the other. With his bad hand, he reached out for the door. Bo pushed it open for him, and he could have kissed Mini Pit. Instead he mumbled a thanks.
“Human resources is sending a new home care worker to your house. She’s stopping by today.”
What did a home health care worker have to do with PR?
“I think you’ll like this one,” Bo continued as she followed him outside.
A June breeze cooled the sweat on Mark’s brow, but the fresh air did nothing to relieve the pounding in his head and the aches in his body. A black Lincoln waited for him at the curb, and his pace slowed.
“I personally recommended her.”
The driver got out and opened the back passenger door. Mark eased himself inside and clenched his jaw against the pain knotting his leg.
“If you could give her a chance, I’d appreciate it,” Bo called out as the driver shut the door and returned to the front of the car.
Mark reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bottle of painkillers. He popped the top, dumped six into his mouth, and chewed. Like a shot of Jose Cuervo, Vicodin straight up was an acquired taste.
Bo yelled something as the car pulled away from the curb and headed for the 520. He didn’t know why human resources kept sending home health care workers to his door. He knew it had something to do with the organization’s aftercare program, but Mark didn’t need anyone to take care of him. He hated being dependent on anyone. Hell, he hated being dependent on the car service that hauled him around.
He leaned his head back and took a steady breath. He’d fired the first three health care workers within moments of their arrival. He’d told them to get the hell out of his house and had slammed the door on their behinds. After that, the Chinooks’ organization had let him know that the nurses worked for them. They paid the nurses’ salaries as well as his medical expenses not covered by insurance. Which were enormous. In short, he couldn’t fire anyone. But of course that didn’t mean that he couldn’t help them to quit. The last two health care workers the organization had sent over had stayed less than an hour. He bet he could get this next one out of his house in half that time.
His eyes drifted closed and he dozed the twenty minutes to Medina. In his dream, images flashed across his weary mind. Images of him playing hockey, the cool air hitting his cheeks and whipping the ends of his jersey. He could smell the ice. Taste the adrenaline on his tongue; he was once again the man he’d been before the accident. Whole.
The Lincoln smoothly merging into the exit lane roused him, and, as always, he woke in pain and disappointment. His eyes opened and he gazed out the window at tree-lined streets that reeked of money and pretension. He was almost home. Home to an empty house and a life he didn’t recognize, and hated.
Teams of landscapers mowed and edged immaculate lawns in the small Seattle suburb. Some of the wealthiest people in the world lived in Medina, but wealth alone did not open doors and guarantee entrée into the exclusive community. Much to his former wife’s dismay. Christine had wanted so desperately to belong to the exclusive group of women who lunched at the country club in their St. John and Chanel suits. The older women with their perfect hair, and the younger wives of Microsoft millionaires who reveled and basked in their snobbery. No matter how much of his money Chrissy donated to their causes, they never let her forget that she’d been born to working-class parents from Kent. Even that might have been overlooked if her husband had made his millions from business and finance, but Mark was an athlete. And not an athlete of an acceptable sport like water polo. He played hockey.
He might as well have been a drug dealer, as far as the people in Medina were concerned. Personally, he’d never cared what people thought of him. Still didn’t, but it had driven Chrissy crazy. She’d been so consumed with money and so sure that money could buy her anything, and when it hadn’t bought her the one thing she desperately wanted, she’d blamed him. Sure, there were some things he’d done wrong in his marriage or could have done better, but he wasn’t going to take the blame for not getting invited to neighborhood cocktail parties or for getting snubbed at the county club.
On his fifth wedding anniversary, he’d come home after five days on the road to find his wife gone. She’d taken all her things but had thought enough to leave behind their wedding album, waiting for him on the granite island in the middle of the kitchen. She’d left it open to a picture of the two of them, Chrissy smiling, looking happy and gorgeous in her Vera Wang gown. Him in his Armani tux. The butcher knife stuck through his head in the album had kind of ruined the picture of wedded bliss. At least it had for him.
Call him a romantic.
He still wasn’t sure what she’d been so angry about. It wasn’t as if he’d ever been home enough to really piss her off. She was the one who’d left him because he and his money hadn’t been enough for her. She’d wanted more, and she’d found it down the street with a sugar daddy nearly twice her age. The ink on their divorce papers had barely dried when she’d moved a few streets away, where she was currently living on the lakefront not far from Bill Gates. But even with the pricier address and the acceptable husband, Mark didn’t imagine the girls at the country club were any nicer to her now than they’d ever been. More polite, yes. Nicer, no. Not that he thought Chrissy would mind all that much. As long as they air-kissed her cheek and complimented her designer clothes, she’d be happy.
The divorce had been finalized a year ago, and Mark had put “get the hell out of Medina” on his to-do list. Right after winning the Stanley Cup. Mark was not a multitasker. He liked to do one thing at a time and do it right. Finding a new home was still number two on the list, but these days it took second place after walking ten feet without pain.
The Lincoln pulled into his circular driveway and stopped behind a beat-up CR-V with California plates. The health care worker, Mark presumed. He wrapped his hand around his cane and looked out the window at the woman sitting on his front steps. She wore big sunglasses and a bright orange jacket.
The driver came around to the back of the passenger door and opened it. “Can I help you out, Mr. Bressler?”
“I’m fine.” He rose from the car, and his hip cramped and the muscles burned. “Thanks.” He tipped the driver and turned his attention to the brick sidewalk leading to his porch and the double mahogany doors. His progress was slow and steady, the Vicodin finally kicking in to take the edge off the pain. The girl in the orange jacket stood and watched him approach from behind her big sunglasses. Beneath the orange jacket, she wore a dress of every imaginable color, but the color nightmare didn’t stop with her clothing. The top of her hair was blond, with an unnatural shade of reddish-pink beneath. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties and was younger than the other workers had been. Prettier too, despite the hair. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder, and she was kind of skinny.
“Hello, Mr. Bressler,” she said as he moved up the steps past her. She held out her hand. “I’m Chelsea Ross. I’m your new home care worker.”
The woman’s jacket did not improve on closer inspection. It was leather and looked like she’d chewed it herself. He ignored her hand and dug around in his pocket for his keys. “I don’t need a home health care worker.”
“I heard you’re trouble.” She pushed her glasses to the top of her head and laughed. “You aren’t really going to give me a hard time, are you?”
He stuck the key into the lock, then looked over his shoulder into her bright blue eyes. He didn’t know much about women’s fashion, but even he knew that no one should wear that many bright colors together. It was like staring at the sun too long, and he feared getting a blind spot. “Just trying to save you time.”
“I appreciate it.” She followed him into the house and shut the door behind them. “Actually, my job doesn’t officially start until tomorrow. I just wanted to come today and introduce myself. You know, just say hey.”
He tossed his keys on the entry table. They skidded across the top and stopped next to a crystal vase that hadn’t had a passing acquaintance with real flowers in years. “Fine. Now you can leave,” he said, and continued across the marble floor, past the spiral staircase to the kitchen. He was starting to feel kind of queasy from all that pain medication he’d downed on an empty stomach.
“This is a beautiful house. I’ve worked in some really nice places, so I know what I’m talking about.” She followed behind him as if she was in no hurry to get the hell out. “Hockey was good to you.”
“It paid the bills.”
“Do you live here alone?”
“I had a dog.” And a wife.
“What happened?”
“It died,” he answered, and got a weird feeling that he might have met her before, but he was fairly sure he’d remember that hair. Although even if her hair was different, he doubted he’d hooked up with her. She wasn’t his type.
“Have you eaten lunch?”
He moved across the marble floor to the stainless-steel refrigerator. He opened it up and pulled out a bottle of water. “No.” Short and perky had never been his type. “Have I met you before?”
“Do you watch The Bold and the Beautiful?”
“The what?”
She laughed. “If you’re hungry, I could make you a sandwich.”
“No.”
“Even though I don’t officially start until tomorrow, I could manage soup.”
“I said no.” He tilted the water to his lips and looked at her over the end of the clear plastic. The bottom of her hair really was a weird shade. Not quite red and not quite pink, and he had to wonder if she’d dyed the carpet to match the curtains. A few years ago, a Chinooks’ fan had dyed her pubes blue and green to show her support. Mark hadn’t seen the woman up close and personal, but he had seen the photos.
“Well, you just turned down a once-in-a-lifetime offer. I never cook for my employer. It sets a bad precedent, and to be totally honest, I suck in the kitchen,” she said through a big grin, which might have been cute if it wasn’t so annoying.
God, he hated cheerful people. Time to piss her off and get her to leave. “You don’t sound Russian.”
“I’m not.”
He lowered the bottle as he lowered his gaze to her orange leather jacket. “So why are you dressed like you’re just off the boat?”
She glanced down at her dress and pointed out, “It’s my Pucci.”
Mark was pretty sure she hadn’t said “pussy,” but it had sure sounded like it. “I’m going to go blind looking at you.”
She glanced up and the corners of her blue eyes narrowed. He couldn’t tell if she was about to laugh or yell. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not very nice.”
“Not very politically correct either.”
“Now there’s something that keeps me awake at night.” He took another drink. He was tired and hungry and wanted to sit down before he fell down. Maybe nod off during a court TV show. In fact, he was missing Judge Joe Brown. He pointed toward the front of the house. “The door’s that way. Don’t let it hit your ass on your way out.”
She laughed again as if she was a few bricks short. “I like you. I think we’re going to get along great.”
She was more than a few bricks short. “Are you …” He shook his head as if he was searching for the right word. “What is the politically correct term for ‘retarded’?”
“I think the words you’re fishing for are ‘mentally disabled.’ And no. I’m not mentally disabled.”