The fund-raiser was tomorrow night. She had to be there, even though she’d far prefer to deal with Woody over the phone than in person.
But this event was big. The pseudo-leaks of photos and information from “Woody’s insider fangirl”—aka Mr. Terry Banerjee—had brought lots of attention to Woody and the VitalSport campaign. Everyone would be watching him Saturday night. Smartphones and other devices would take photos and shoot video; people would tweet; images and posts would appear on the Internet as the event progressed.
Woody had been on the road a lot, and even when he was in Vancouver he’d been occupied with practices and game preparation, so Georgia’s team hadn’t had nearly enough time to work with him. Using e-mail and phone, Terry had developed a speech with him, and they’d gone over possible interview questions and answers. Viv had carefully selected his wardrobe. Georgia could only hope that the lessons in deportment she and his judge friend had given him were enough to get him through the banquet dinner.
And then there was the dancing. It was a black-tie ball, and when she’d asked Woody if he could dance, he’d said, “Yeah.” She had a feeling that meant high school clutch-and-shuffle rather than foxtrot, waltz, and cha-cha, but there was simply no time for ballroom dancing lessons. So she’d said, “Try to stay off the dance floor. It’s more important you mingle.”
She’d have to keep an eye on him every moment.
That meant she had to keep a tight rein on her own emotions.
The night promised to be sheer torture.
On Saturday night, fresh out of the shower, Woody dressed for the fund-raiser. Viv had chosen not only his tux and shirt but every other item in his wardrobe: the black VitalSport boxer briefs that he had to admit were more comfortable than the brand he used to wear; the blue-and-black patterned bow tie and vest that accented his custom-made tux and, according to Viv, made the blue of his eyes even more vivid; and the Italian cotton hankie she’d insisted the well-dressed man should never be without.
She’d wanted to come over to help him dress, and bring Christopher Slate to style his hair.
That was where he’d drawn the line. “I can dress myself,” he’d protested irritably.
Now, as he did exactly that, he wished he was spending the evening in front of the TV, wrapped in ice packs.
He checked his watch. Ten to six, and the cab would arrive on the hour. The event didn’t officially start until six thirty, but Viv had insisted on him arriving early. She’d also insisted on a taxi, even though the Four Seasons was only a five-minute walk. She’d said she didn’t want him arriving windblown and sweaty. Like he’d sweat walking a half dozen blocks.
Viv was nice, smart, and she could be fun, but he was getting damned tired of being bossed around. The last order she’d given him was to meet up with Georgia the moment he arrived at the ballroom.
The Dynamic Marketing people didn’t trust him not to stick his foot in his mouth.
Being with Georgia would be awkward at best. Yet, as he took the elevator down from his penthouse apartment, he knew he needed to see her.
The last two wins had shown that the sexy redhead wasn’t his good luck charm. Now he hoped to prove to himself that his interest in her had passed; that she was just another woman, like those he’d dated before, and the ones who’d mobbed him at the airport when the Beavers flew home.
After tonight, he’d get over that weird feeling that something was missing. Even when the team won a game and the adrenaline surge of victory filled him, there was still a kind of hole. An aching hole. It had never been there before.
He kept having this desire to talk to Georgia, to see her, to hold her. It had been nice how the two of them discussed their days, whether it was in person or over the phone when he was out of town. He wanted to share his worry over Stu, and his happiness about how his mom’s health was improving. Tell her how it had felt to score the winning goal in game six. Listen to her relate the ups and downs of her day. Have her tenderly wrap ice around his aching shoulder, then make him forget all about the aches when her lips touched his.
There was something wrong with him. More than his bad shoulder and back. How many women had he slept with over the years? He’d never obsessed over a single one.
The taxi arrived and he climbed in, saying, “Four Seasons Hotel, please,” to the dark-skinned, turbaned driver.
The driver scrutinized him. “Aren’t you Woody Hanrahan?”
“Yeah.”
He pulled away. “Almost didn’t recognize you, dressed up like that.”
“Me either.”
“You’re going to win that Cup tomorrow night.”
Woody liked the way he said it: a statement, not a question. He also liked that the man was talking about hockey, not gonch photos. “You bet we are.”
“The Caps don’t stand a chance.”
They talked hockey for the rest of the short ride; then Woody gave the driver his autograph for his son, along with a big tip.
He climbed out of the cab, thinking that he’d sure been more at home talking with the cabbie than going into this black-tie
affair
, to use Georgia’s term. He’d been to these things before and always felt awkward, at least until he met up with someone who was interested in sports.
Tonight, at least he wasn’t in an ill-fitting penguin suit that pulled across the shoulders, with hair that needed a trim, and he could hold his own in the
deportment
area. He felt good about the speech in his pocket too. Terry Banerjee was great about suggesting topics and themes, then helping Woody find his own way of phrasing things so that the words and emotions were genuine.
Yeah, he was prepared. He was even prepared for seeing Georgia.
Or so he thought until he glanced through the doorway into the ballroom, elegant and glittering with the light of chandeliers and candles. There she was across the empty room, talking to a bartender.
She was stunning.
Women often wore black to these events. It was supposed to be sophisticated, but he thought it made them look like a flock of crows. Georgia would never be taken for one of a flock.
She looked so classy, he couldn’t believe this was the same woman who’d moaned and writhed with pleasure as he plunged his tongue deep inside her. Her evening gown was the warm gold of a sandy beach, a color that made her skin look even creamier and her hair even fierier. He guessed Viv had persuaded her to accept
Christopher Slate’s assistance, because her hair was fancied up, some pieces held away from her face with sparkly clips while other curls tumbled free to caress her neck and shoulders.
A neck and shoulders he’d explored in such detail that he knew exactly where to lick, exactly where to suck, to make her moan.
Deep in conversation with the bartender, she hadn’t seen Woody yet, where he hovered outside the door. He didn’t move, not wanting to draw her attention to him.
Right now, anything was possible. He could imagine that, when her gaze lit on him, she’d beam, hurry across the room to meet him, and throw herself into his arms.
And he wanted that. Damn it, he wanted that. The realization sank into him, deep and certain and terrifying.
He wanted it as much as—maybe even more than—he wanted the Stanley Cup.
His heart raced and his stomach did a somersault. Shit. So much for trying to convince himself Georgia was just another woman.
He’d fallen in love with her.
He’d never been in love before. No wonder it had taken him so long to understand the symptoms.
Hell, he didn’t want to be in love. Love made people vulnerable. People did crazy things in the name of love. Like his mom staying with his dad all those years. If you loved someone, they had the power to shatter your heart.
That was why he’d felt like there was something missing. A hole, an ache. When Georgia had said she didn’t want to get back together with him, she’d taken a chunk of his heart.
What had she said? That she had everything to give a man, but that man wasn’t him.
Sorrow sliced through him, a blow to the gut, a whack that bowed his aching back.
But then he straightened. Damn it, why not? Why the hell
couldn’t he be that man? Okay, he didn’t have university degrees like her; he wasn’t an intellectual like her deceased husband; he wasn’t all suave like Marco Sanducci. But he was a decent guy. He might not know much about love, but he learned quickly. Georgia knew that. She could teach him.
He had to make her want to.
Determination strengthened and focused him. He had a goal now. The most important goal in his life. Taking long strides, he stepped through the doorway and crossed the room toward her.
Her gaze shifted away from the bartender and fixed on him. Her eyes widened. She didn’t beam. She didn’t immediately rush to him. But she did, after a long pause, walk slowly toward him.
When they met, she said, in that horrible polite, impersonal tone she’d been using with him, “You look very nice. Viv chose well.”
“You look gorgeous, Georgia.” Though, now that he was close to her, he saw that her face looked strained and the glow on her cheeks might be due to makeup. Gorgeous, yes, but not happy. Not the way she’d looked when they were together. That gave him hope. “How are you?”
“Fine,” she said dismissively. Then, almost as if she couldn’t stop herself: “Nervous. I’m not used to formal events like this.”
“Same for me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “But you’re prepared? You have the speech?”
He touched his breast pocket. “Yeah.”
“Good. Let’s go over the agenda one more time.”
“No. I know the agenda.” He caught her hand and tried to tug her toward a corner of the room. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
She resisted. “About the event? You couldn’t have thought of it earlier?”
“Not about the event. And I know this isn’t the best time, but I have to tell you something.” He tugged again, and this time she
went, pulling back slightly against his hand to let him know she was dragging her heels.
He stood her in the corner, released her hand, and stepped in front of her so that his body blocked any view of her. Anyone looking across the room would see only the anonymous back of a big man in a tux. It was the most privacy he could give them.
“I’m a total idiot,” he said.
A corner of her mouth flicked, but her eyes remained cool. “True.”
“I acted like a shit and I hurt you, and I hate that I did that.” Her eyes lost their guardedness and he saw the real Georgia.
“You didn’t trust me, Woody. Yes, that hurt. A lot. I thought you knew me better than that.”
“I did. I do.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t about you; it was about me. I don’t trust easily.”
“Go on.” She wasn’t making this easy, but she hadn’t shut him down.
“It goes back a long way. Couldn’t trust my dad. Couldn’t trust my mom to look out for herself. Or for me.”
“I know, but you can’t let your childhood rule your life.”
“No. And there’s people I do trust, like the coaches and my teammates. But that’s, you know, when it comes to the game. Not when it comes to”—he swallowed—“my emotions.”
Something sparked in her eyes, a small glow of gold amid the amber. “Your emotions?”
“I had this bad experience recently. It’s pretty much the only thing I didn’t tell you about. But I couldn’t because, well, it’s someone else’s secret too.” Woody frowned. He’d promised Martin he’d keep the secret of his gambling and his fraud.
But this was important. And yes, he did trust Georgia. “I told you about when I was a kid, how my friend’s father helped me out so I could play hockey.”
Georgia hugged her arms around her body. Was there a problem with the climate control in this room? Since she’d seen Woody, she’d been alternating between chills and hot flashes.
Or maybe her body was echoing the roller-coaster ride of her emotions.
He looked so wonderful, despite the shadows around his eyes and lines of tiredness and stress on his face. The playoffs were taking their toll, and she hoped he wasn’t in too much pain. She knew that, when he’d agreed to attend the Boys & Girls Club fund-raiser, he’d hoped the Beavers would’ve already taken home the Stanley Cup. Now, with the final game of a very tough playoffs tomorrow night, he should be home resting.
But here he was, honoring the commitments he’d made: to the Club and to VitalSport.
And here he was, apologizing again.
Last time, her wounds had been fresh and raw, and she’d heeded her brain and thrown up defensive barriers. Tonight, she found herself softening. He seemed truly upset and repentant, and the least she could do was hear him out.
People had their issues, their hot buttons. For Georgia, the biggie was to not be man-centered and needy like her mom. If trust was Woody’s big issue, maybe she could understand that he’d overreacted and accused her, and now regretted it.
The fact that he had come to her and was revealing things that were painful for him confirmed that, whether or not he was ready to admit it to himself, he cared about her. Maybe she was foolish, but hope blossomed inside her.
“Yes,” she said, “you told me how Martin took you to practices and games, and paid for equipment and coaching.” Things his own father hadn’t done. “He sounds like a wonderful man. You said
you owe it to him that you got away from home and have your career.”
“I do owe it to him. And more. He became my agent when I was fourteen. Coaches and players often suggested I sign with one of the big sports agents, but Martin did a good job for me. He
got
me, you know? He understood I hated doing media stuff and endorsements, and he didn’t push, even though there’d have been more money in it for him.” He grimaced, as if he was in pain.
Instinctively, she touched his arm. “Are you all right?”
He gazed down at her hand, then put his own over it, holding it there. “If you’re touching me, I’m all right.”
It was one of the sweetest things anyone had ever said to her, and it almost brought tears to her eyes. She realized that something more than hope was growing inside her: a deep sense of certainty that Woody truly cared.