She shook her head as she ran her fingers through the sides of his hair. “I don’t want to deplete all your strength. You’re going to need it against Detroit’s blue line.”
“I have untapped reserves. I’m like Superman. Just when I think I’m spent, I tap into it and kick ass and take names.”
She laughed like he was joking. “Well, I don’t want to jinx you. I know all you hockey players are superstitious.”
Ty wasn’t as superstitious as some of the guys. He just didn’t need any distractions. Detroit was going to bring their A-game, and he had to be ready. Physically and mentally. “Once I get my head in the game, I’m hard to knock off the puck,” he said as he pulled her against the front of his jeans.
She lifted a brow. “You’re hard again.”
“Watching you play golf turned me on.”
“Was it my brilliant backswing?”
“Your swing sucks.” He shook his head and lowered his face to hers. “It was your brilliant back
side
,” he said against the corner of her pouty mouth.
“When does your father usually get home?”
“He’s here by six. We have time.”
She ran her hand down his side, over his tattoo. “Did this hurt?”
He sucked in a breath as her palm slid to his belly. “Not as bad as a broken ankle.”
“You broke your ankle?” she asked as she placed little kisses along his jaw. “When?”
“2001. Third round, Game Two against the Devils.”
“What happened here?” She kissed his chin and slipped her hand down the front of his pants.
“I got hard watching you play golf.”
She laughed and wrapped her palm around the head of his dick. “I know that. I’m asking about your scar.”
That had happened so long ago, he never thought about it these days. “High stick. Claude Lemieux. 1998. Post-season game against Colorado. Twenty stitches.”
“Ouch.” She slid her mouth to the side of his throat as her free hand unbuttoned his pants. “I’ve never broken a bone or had stitches.” His pants slid from his hips and pooled about his bare feet. “Just have the one tattoo,” she said.
He’d noticed the Playboy bunny in the small of her back. “And it’s sexy as hell,” he managed as she sucked his neck.
“Virgil hated it.” She kissed her way across his shoulder and down his chest. “He didn’t want anyone to know about it. He said classy girls don’t get tattoos.”
“Virgil was old and didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.”
She knelt in front of him and slipped her hand
up and down his shaft. “It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” she said as she looked up at him through her beautiful green eyes. “If it doesn’t feel good, tell me and I’ll stop.”
Jesus. She pressed her soft lips to the head of his cock and he about went off. “Yeah, I’ll be sure and do that.” After this, he should be good for a while. She’d be out of his system, he thought as she took him into her hot, wet mouth. He ran his finger in her hair as she moved. Yeah, getting off four times in one night should last him for some time. Then she moaned, a sweet little sound that vibrated her throat and he gave up thinking at all.
G
iant billboards of a towering Faith and Ty hung about the city of Seattle and dominated the front of the Key Arena. Beneath the shot of the owner standing in front of the team captain, the words simply said, CHINOOKS HOCKEY. GET HOOKED. To Bo’s utter disappointment and Jules’s unabashed pleasure, there was no mention of beauty and savages and no appearance of nuts-stomping at all.
In the days leading up to the game, excitement buzzed the city, and that Thursday evening the Key was packed for Game One in the semifinal against the Detroit Red Wings. From the drop of the first puck, everything went Seattle’s way. The team scored two goals in the first frame. In the
second period, the Detroit offense rallied with one goal and held the Chinooks at 2–1 going into the third set. For fifteen minutes each team defended their goals, passing the puck from coast to coast without a clear shot at the crease. With five minutes left, Ty passed the puck across ice to the Sniper, Frankie Kawczynski, who made a shot through traffic. Goalie Chris Osgood got a tip of his glove on it as it sailed behind him into the net, and the Chinooks sewed up the first game 3–1.
Faith walked into the players’ lounge fifteen minutes after the game ended with Jules by her side. He wore a Chinooks T-shirt beneath a dark-blue suit jacket and a pair of jeans. He would have looked unusually subtle if the T-shirt hadn’t been two sizes too small.
“What did you think of the game?” a reporter asked as Faith walked into the room.
“I’m pleased, of course. But I’m not surprised.” She wore her new red leather jacket over her blue-and-red Chinooks T-shirt. “The team worked really hard to get here.”
“Will you be traveling with the team to Detroit?”
She opened her mouth to answer and got out, “I don’t th—” when Ty walked out of the dressing room. Her brain froze and she lost track of all thought. He wore a pair of loose shorts around his hips and that was it. A few hours ago he’d worn
even less. A few hours ago she’d touched all that smooth skin and hard muscles. A few hours ago his pants had been around his ankles and she’d had him in her mouth. She raised her gaze from the defined muscles and of his hairy chest to his face. His blue eyes stared into hers and he raised one brow.
“Will you be traveling with the team to Detroit?”
Heat crept up her chest and she tore her gaze from Ty. “No.”
He’d made her feel so good that she fought the urge to sprint across the room and attach herself to him. She thought she’d feel regret for sleeping with the captain of her team. It was unacceptable and unprofessional, and she should feel regret. But she didn’t. At least not for the reasons she thought she should. What she felt mostly was a big lump of guilt in the pit of her stomach. Her husband had been dead for a month and a half, and last night she’d had wild, amazing sex with a man who’d made her feel things she’d never felt before. She’d been a stripper, a Playmate, and a rich man’s wife, but she’d never craved a man’s touch like she did Ty’s. Or had craved, rather. It was over, but for those few short hours while she’d been with Ty, she hadn’t thought of her dead husband. Not really, and not at all while he’d kissed and touched her. The man who’d given her a great
life and provided for her in death had been the furthest thing from her mind.
The reporters asked her more questions about the game and the future of the team. More players poured out of the locker room. The excitement in the room was electric; it buzzed the air and elevated voices. Faith answered questions or gave ambiguous responses or deferred to Jules, who knew specifics, and through it all, she was completely aware of Ty.
The sound of his voice cut through the noise and a warm, tingling awareness brushed across her skin and tickled her stomach. Ty had given her that one thing Virgil had always wished he could give but hadn’t been able to. A connection that could only happen through physical intimacy. The passion her mother was always talking about. The one thing she hadn’t had with her husband. Something so much bigger than her ability to stop it. Something so all consuming it had swept her up and knocked her flat like a hot, black hurricane.
Her gaze moved across the room to Ty and the knot of reporters around him. Through the other voices in the room, she heard him say, “My quick transition from Vancouver has been very easy. Coach Nystrom knows how to inspire great hockey and the players all bring their best to every game.”
“Are you getting along better with the owner of the team?”
He lifted his gaze to Faith’s and one corner of his mouth lifted in an honest-to-God smile. “She’s okay.”
Faith’s heart felt like it lifted a little too. Right in her chest. Right there in the locker room in front of players and coaches and journalists.
“Although,” he added as he continued to look across at her, “I read in the paper this morning that she thinks I’m a control nut, and if I let go, I might not be so rude and surly all the time.”
“I didn’t say all the time,” she muttered.
“What?” Jim from the
Seattle Times
asked her. “What did you say, Mrs. Duffy?”
“That I didn’t say he was rude and surly
all
the time.”
One of the journalists laughed. “Savage is notoriously cranky. I’d like to know when he
isn’t
scowling.”
He watched her, still smiling like he was amused, waiting for her answer.
When he’s having sex
, she thought to herself. He hadn’t been cranky or rude last night. He’d been wonderful and charming. He’d made her laugh and, incredible as it seemed, relax with him. Something she hadn’t done in a while with anyone, and he certainly wasn’t being surly tonight. “When he wins important games,” she answered.
“What is your strategy for Saturday night’s game in Detroit?” someone asked Ty.
He gave Faith one last look before he turned his attention to the man in front of him. “Hockey is a game of one-on-one battles. We just need to keep that in mind and win every battle.”
Faith turned to Jules. “Are you still going to be able to make the Chinooks Foundation meeting tomorrow?” she asked.
He gazed at her, then looked across the room at Ty. He opened his mouth, then closed it. A wrinkle appeared between his dark brows. “I hadn’t planned on it, but I can if you want me to,” he answered, but she had a feeling something was bothering him.
She shook her head and moved toward the door. “No. I can take my own notes.” As she stepped out into the hall, she couldn’t resist one last look at Ty, standing a head taller than the other men. She remembered every detail of the night before. His face in the dark solarium and the touch of his hands and mouth. She’d like to blame last night on Layla, but she couldn’t. Not if she was honest with herself. Last night had been all her. There’d been no teasing. No ulterior motive. No making a man want her when she just wanted his money. She couldn’t blame Layla for last night’s behavior. Not when Faith had been in complete control.
She turned away and headed toward the el
evators. Last night had been all about giving in to what
she
wanted. About sitting in the Brooklyn Seafood Steak and Oyster House and letting Ty touch her under the table. Of putting her hand over his and taking it a step further. She’d done that. Not Layla. Not the wild, shameless person she’d created to hide behind. Last night had been about Faith letting go and being shameless all on her own.
On the drive home, she thought about her life since Virgil’s death. One moment she’d been living a nice, comfortable life. A life where her biggest decision on most days was what she was going to wear. That person, that Faith, would not have let go and moved a man’s big, warm hand to her crotch.
She pulled her Bentley into the parking garage and rode the elevator to the top floor. Her life had changed so much in such a short period of time. It had gone from a slow, easy pace to a whirlwind of meetings and activity. Her decisions had gone from what to wear to how much to pay a first-round draft pick for the next season. And while she had a lot of help with the latter decision, it was such a huge responsibility that she probably would have buckled under the pressure if she were ever allowed to stop and rest long enough to think about it.
She opened the door to the penthouse, and
nothing but Pebbles’s yipping and the light in the kitchen greeted her. No “Sexual Healing” on the stereo or giggling from her mother’s room.
Faith moved through the kitchen and down the hall to her own bedroom. She took off her jacket and tossed it on a chair. She couldn’t recall the last time Virgil had stayed in the penthouse, but it had been so long ago that there was no trace of him anywhere. No clothes or ties. No shoes or combs. His toothbrush wasn’t in the marble tile bathroom.
The only thing that belonged to him was his copy of
David Copperfield
, which Faith had taken from the big house the day she’d left. She sat on the bed and turned on a lamp. Pebbles jumped up beside her as she took the book from the nightstand and ran her hand over the dark brown cover. She lifted it to her nose and smelled the old paper and worn leather. Virgil had always smelled like expensive cologne, but the book held no lingering trace of him.
Pebbles walked in three tight circles next to Faith’s hip, then stretched out alongside her thigh. Faith dug her fingers into the dog’s thick fur as tears filled her eyes. She missed Virgil. She missed his friendship and his wisdom, but it wasn’t her deceased husband she saw when she closed her eyes. It was another man. A man who didn’t smile easily, but who did other, wonderful things with
his mouth. A beautiful, strong man who had made her feel safe within his arms as he’d held her against the solarium glass and made love to her. A man who looked at her from across the room and made her stomach go light and heavy and tingly all at the same time. A man who made her want to walk over to him and lay her head on his bare chest.
Faith opened her eyes and brushed a tear from her cheek. She’d just buried her husband and she couldn’t stop thinking about another man. What did that say about her? That she was a horrible person? As horrible and without morals as Landon had always accused her of being?
A book she’d read about grieving said that a person should wait a full year before dating or getting involved. Although could she really call what had happened with Ty the other night “dating or getting involved”? No. Not really. It had been about having sex. About scratching an itch. About letting go and finding release.
But if that’s all it was about, why the warm little tingles tonight? Why the urge to walk across the room and lay her head on his bare chest? After scratching that particular itch four times in one night, shouldn’t she be all scratched out? Shouldn’t she be over letting go? If it had been just about sex, shouldn’t she be good for a while? Especially considering how long she’d gone without?
She ran her hand down Pebbles’s fur and the dog turned over and exposed her belly. There was something deeper than the sex. Something else going on that scared her. It wasn’t love. She did not love Ty Savage. She’d been in love a few times and knew what it felt like. Love felt nice and warm and comfortable—like the love she’d had with Virgil. Or it was hot and consuming—like the love she’d felt for previous boyfriends. It didn’t feel wrong. As if one false move and the bottom might fall out of your life.
That wasn’t love. That was a disaster waiting to happen.
The next morning, Faith met with the director of the Chinooks Foundation. Her name was Miranda Snow, and she seemed genuinely happy to be meeting with Faith. “My assistant is out of the office today,” she said as she handed Faith several brochures. “These are the Chinooks Foundation’s different charities.”
Faith looked them over and was impressed. Every year, the Chinooks held a celebrity golf tournament to raise money for players and former players who’d suffered injury and needed extensive rehabilitation beyond their personal medical coverage.
“We’re currently paying Mark Bressler’s hospital bills that aren’t covered by Blue Cross,” she
explained. “And for any additional rehabilitation he might need.”
“How’s he doing?” Faith asked about the former captain, whom she’d met a few times at the Chinooks Christmas parties.
“Well, he broke half the bones in his body and he’s lucky he isn’t paralyzed.” Miranda tossed a pen on her desk. “His caregivers say he’s being a real pain.”
The second charity Miranda told her about was a scholarship program to send eligible children to ice hockey camps. It was based on three criteria. Eligible children had to maintain a 3.0 grade average in school, play above-average hockey, and be of a lower income.
The third charity, the Hope and Wishes Foundation, raised money to aid children’s hospitals throughout the state of Washington with a three-pronged approach: research, financial aid, and community awareness of childhood diseases. Faith read the assembled press clippings and promotional notes about each charity event and had several questions and a comment. She wanted to know how much money each charity raised. She wanted to know how much money was spent on overhead and administrative costs, and what the foundation had planned for the near future.
“I think the PR on this is overboard,” she commented as she read some of the clippings. “We
should give back to the community because they support us. Not because we get good PR out of it and might sell more hockey tickets.” It was something she’d learned from the Gloria Thornwell Society and something she just happened to agree with. A person or charity should give for the right reasons and not for the glory. There were those who would argue that it didn’t matter as long as the result was the same. Faith could understand that argument, but she’d known too many socialites who chaired events or donated money to get their photos on the society pages.
Miranda looked shocked. “I agree, but I’ve been the lone voice around here. There’s a little girl in that department who is very aggressive about promotion.”
Bo
. Faith smiled. “I’ll take care of it.”
The following night, she met Bo and Jules at a sports pub to watch the Chinooks play in Detroit. The first period started off fairly even, with ten shots on goal for the Chinooks, twelve for the Red Wings. With two minutes left on the clock, the Red Wings scored on a 5-on-4 goal.