“It’s a challenge to put all the pieces together into an effective campaign, and fascinating to know we’re influencing people’s opinions. I get a kick out of turning the page in a magazine and seeing a dynamite ad that we worked hard on.” She studied his face. “You find it hard to relate to.”
“A little. I mean, I’m pretty basic. Ice, puck, goal.”
“A man of pure action.”
“Sort of. Though”—he thought for a moment—“there’s strategy. Practice. Teamwork. A kind of second sense that tells you where everyone’s at, out there on the ice. What they’re doing, what they’re planning to do.”
She leaned forward, forearms on the table, the shawl slipping back so that he saw her arms were bare. Slim and cream-colored, matching the restaurant.
His fingers itched to stroke that bare skin.
“Terry says hockey takes intelligence,” she said. “Smarts, skill, instinct, and discipline.”
Woody nodded. “Good description. Different kind of smarts than book learning, though.”
“Smarts that, Terry pointed out, make you more money in a year than we’ll make in a lifetime,” she said wryly.
Yeah, if he hadn’t trusted Martin Simpson, he’d have a fortune by now. Trusting the man—trusting anyone—wasn’t exactly “smart.”
“Something wrong?” Georgia asked. “You’re frowning.”
Nah, he wouldn’t let Martin ruin tonight, with him and Georgia getting along like this. Plus, he’d had good news today. His mom, who, together with her full-time nurse/caregiver, had arrived at the clinic in Switzerland last week, had told him on the phone that she was feeling better already. Experience had taught him not to trust her words, because she’d always hidden health problems— from broken bones to her cancer diagnosis—but he’d learned to read her voice. Today, it had held fresh energy.
Man, he wished he could be in Switzerland with her.
Of course, if he didn’t pull up his socks and get back in the zone, the Beavers would lose the Western Conference and he’d have all the fucking time in the world. They’d won the first game against the Ducks, then lost the last three, and it was partly his fault.
“Woody? What is it?”
He realized he was scowling. “Sorry. Just got thinking about the last three games.”
“They didn’t go so well.”
An understatement. A polite one. Normally, he didn’t talk about stuff like this with anyone other than his teammates, but he found himself saying, “All that smarts and skill stuff, somehow it’s not working for me right now. Gotta get it back.”
She studied him with a concerned expression. “That must be disturbing. Do you have any idea what the problem is? It’s not the VitalSport contract, is it, and the time we’re asking you to put in?”
Sure it was. And worry over his mom, not to mention simmering
anger over his agent’s betrayal and his own stupidity in trusting the man. Having to wear a face shield didn’t help his game, and nor did being distracted by Georgia.
But usually he had focus out on the ice. Nothing affected his concentration: not pain, not trash talk, not some dumb call from the ref, much less anything that was happening in his off-the-ice life. Oh sure, he slipped sometimes—he was human, not a machine—but mostly he got in the zone and stayed there. Why couldn’t he do that now?
The concern in Georgia’s eyes warmed him. “Nah, it’s not the endorsement.”
“Are you injured? Your shoulder—”
“What about my shoulder?” He cut her off, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Are people saying I’m injured?” They couldn’t be; he’d have heard the rumors.
She shook her head. “I just noticed, when that player smashed into you in the last game, your shoulder took a beating and it took you a little while to get back up.”
“Seconds. I was up in seconds,” he defended hotly. He’d barely registered the pain, just leaped to his feet. Hell, if Georgia, who knew nothing about the game, thought he was slow, what were the Ducks seeing? Last thing he wanted was to look vulnerable. Besides, after a couple of days with no games scheduled, just light practice sessions, physio, and vigorous workouts, his shoulder was doing fine.
“You were. Sorry. I just”—she glanced away and picked up her cocktail glass—“I was worried about you. I don’t understand how someone can get hit that hard and not feel it.”
Somewhat reassured, he managed a grin. “Canadian tough guy, remember?” Was she worrying because she cared for him, at least a little? Or only because her marketing campaign depended on him?
“Right. I forgot for a moment,” Georgia teased.
Wait. He didn’t want her to care for him. All he wanted was sex.
Last thing he wanted was some woman looking for commitment, talking about the future.
“Well, I’m really glad you’re not injured.” Mischief sparked in her eyes. “And hey, things are bound to look up. You have that lucky haircut and beard trim. I have to agree with Viv. Christopher Slate really is a genius.”
His teammates would give him shit tomorrow, but he liked the appreciation in Georgia’s eyes. “Yeah, the man is. You look terrific.” So touchable, so sexy, so irresistible. “When I saw you this afternoon, I didn’t think he’d done much, but wow, your hair looks great tonight.” Then, realizing he’d done one of those foot-in-mouth guy things, he quickly added, “Not that it doesn’t look good usually. But I like it all loose and curly like that.”
She tugged the shawl, which had slipped down, back up around her shoulders. “Why?”
Give a girl a compliment and she had to go all analytical. “Because, uh, it’s pretty. Makes a guy want to run his fingers through it. Makes you look, you know, softer.” Gave a guy ideas, and hopes. Gave him a throbbing ache and a driving need.
She frowned slightly. “Less professional. When a woman looks like this, a man doesn’t take her as seriously. Not if he’s thinking about running his fingers through her hair.”
Did he agree? Working it through as he idly watched a sophisticated-looking Asian couple about his and Georgia’s age take seats at the neighboring table, he said, “Viv dresses kind of that way for work. I take her seriously. She knows her job.”
“What was your first thought when you met her?”
He thought back. “Pretty. I could live without the bright colors, but I guess that’s her thing.”
“What was your first thought when you met me?”
He remembered turning around and realizing George was a woman. One whose eyes were about ready to pop out of her head.
“That you were flustered. You were shocked at seeing a semi-naked guy in the conference room.” He grinned. “Then you forgot about your broken heel and almost tumbled.” He’d caught her arm, felt a zing of awareness rip through him. Now he didn’t even have to touch her to feel that zing. Just sitting across from her was enough to make desire pulse through him, keeping him semierect.
“But not pretty?” she asked.
How had he gotten himself into this? “Not, uh, not pretty. But the way you were dressed and all, it took longer to sneak up on me. They called you George, you were all stiff and starchy and kind of pissed off, and—”
“You thought I was a lesbian.”
Hard to believe, now that he knew her. “My brain thought that. My body had a different opinion.” An opinion—a need—that intensified each time he was with her.
“Okay, but—”
She broke off as their waiter came over to ask, “Have you decided on dinner yet?”
Saved from getting himself into more trouble, Woody glanced at his companion. “Georgia?” Whatever she ordered, he’d do the same. Unless it was sweetbreads.
She smiled at the waiter. “Could you give us a couple more minutes?”
“Of course.”
When he’d gone, Woody didn’t want Georgia picking up where she’d left off, so he quickly asked, “What was your first thought when you met me?”
Her eyes widened, then sparkled as color hit her cheeks. But all she said was, “That you were a boor.”
“And that’s why you’re blushing like that?”
Georgia couldn’t get enough of looking at Woody tonight. He was easily the most handsome man in the restaurant. Probably in the entire city. Possibly the entire country. Viv had said he cleaned up well, but that was an understatement. And not only did he look amazing; his behavior was impeccable.
Maybe it was Woody, or the unaccustomed cocktail, or the fact that her new clothes and hair made her feel off balance—in mostly a good way—but a mischievous impulse hit her. “All right, if you insist on knowing my first impression.” She glanced at the silver-haired couple seated on one side of them, then at the sleekly dressed Asian pair on the other side. Then, feeling deliciously daring, she leaned toward him and said in little more than a whisper, pronouncing each word slowly and carefully, “Tight, taut, amazing butt.”
He blinked, then gave a surprised laugh, loud enough that both other couples shot them a questioning gaze.
Suffering from immediate second thoughts, she grabbed the menu and studied it again. “What looks good to you?”
“Oh, lots of things.” His seductive tone made her lift her gaze again.
Bedroom eyes. Those were definitely bedroom eyes gazing at her, saying that his idea of a three-course meal was working his way down her body. She pulled the shawl more tightly around herself even as her skin flushed with arousal.
“How about you?” he asked. “What takes your fancy?”
Those eyes. The sharp planes of his face. The beautifully styled hair that looked so touchable, and the sexy scar that cut across his cheekbone. His broad shoulders and the strong muscles of his torso showcased by the jersey-style top. Not to mention the hard penis that would satisfy the needy throb in her sex.
No, this was a business dinner. She’d slipped and forgotten her own “strictly business” rule. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “That was completely inappropriate.”
“Lighten up, Georgia. Just because we work together, that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun. Right?”
Define “fun.”
She swallowed, trying to ignore the man’s blatant sex appeal. “I enjoy talking to you, and it is fun when we joke a little. But I crossed a line. It won’t happen again.” She hoisted the menu and hid behind it. “I think I’ll have the apple and beetroot salad; then I think the slow-cooked halibut. How about you?”
“Uh, sure. I’ll have the same.”
She lowered the menu again. She’d chosen items that sounded light as well as tasty. Surely Woody needed more food than that. “You don’t want something more substantial?”
He shrugged; then she realized he might have picked the same thing so he could imitate her. “Please, order what you want.” She added, in a lower tone, “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” If not, she’d find a subtle way of giving him cues.
His jaw tightened and she worried that she’d embarrassed him, but he glanced at the menu again. “The scallop appetizer and the duck breast.” He picked up the wine list and said tentatively, “A light red might work with both the halibut and the duck.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’m impressed.”
He gave a relieved smile and handed her the list. “Good. Now I figure it’s lady’s choice to pick the wine.”
“Since we’re each only having a glass, we don’t have to get the
same one.” She studied the wine list. “I think I’ll go with a B.C. chardonnay.” Then she handed the list back to him, curious what he’d do with it. “How about you?”
He opened the book-sized list and his eyes glazed over.
“You can never go wrong,” she said softly, “by asking the waiter what the chef recommends to complement a particular dish.”
Woody closed the menu, and when the waiter came back to take their orders, he repeated her words.
The man beamed. “I’m so glad you asked. I’ll send a sommelier over immediately.”
In a couple of minutes, a striking woman with a streak of white in her dark hair came over. With a hint of a French accent, she said, “Sir, I understand you’re looking for a wine pairing for the duck breast?”
“Yes, please.”
“We have an excellent shiraz, but I think perhaps, for you, a bigger wine. Yes?”
“Yes.” He sounded confident, but Georgia guessed he had no idea what a big wine was.
“There is a very special Australian pinot noir I think you’ll enjoy.”
“I’ll trust your judgment. Thanks.”
The sommelier turned to Georgia. “You’ve chosen a wine to accompany your halibut?”
She had, but she was no wine expert. “I’d be interested in a recommendation too. Preferably a B.C. wine.”
“There’s a Blue Mountain sauvignon blanc that goes particularly well with that dish.”
“Sold. Thank you.”
“The sauvignon blanc will go well with the apple and beetroot salad, too,” the sommelier said, then turned back to Woody. “But,
sir, the pinot noir will be too hearty for your scallops. Perhaps a glass of something lighter with your appetizer?”
“Sorry; my limit’s one glass tonight.”
“Of course.” To this point, she’d been professional and friendly. Now her lips tilted up at the corners. “And, Mr. Hanrahan, may I wish you luck tomorrow night? Bash ’em, Beavers!” The words, delivered in her cultured, French-accented voice, sounded totally out of place in this elegant restaurant.
Woody grinned. “Thanks.”
A few minutes later, their waiter brought Georgia’s white wine and a refill of water for Woody. She sipped her wine, smiled appreciatively, then slid the glass toward him. “Try it.”
“A lesson in wine appreciation?”
Really, she’d just wanted to share something nice. But of course it should be a lesson. “Yes. Tell me what you think.”
He lifted the glass, closed his eyes as he took a sip, then swirled the wine gently in his mouth, looking like an entirely different man from the one she’d lunched with. Those striking indigo eyes opened. “Grapefruit, new-mown spring grass, and the wind across a field of hay.”
“Wow.” Blown away, she took the glass back and sipped again. She’d have said “citrusy” and left it at that. But yes, she did taste everything he’d named. “How did you do that?”
“A friend told me to close my eyes and say whatever pops into my mind.” He gave an engaging grin that was part boy and mostly sexy man. “The more outrageous, the better. He said wine snobs are into that stuff.”
“I suppose they are. You certainly have a good palate.”