“The team already has twenty combined penalty minutes. Just last week, Nystrom expressed his desire to keep penalty minutes per game at a minimum. Don’t you consider twenty excessive?”
Ty shoved his arms in his shirt and buttoned it.
“Not at all, Jim. We kept Vancouver from taking advantage of the power plays. So, I’d say we did our jobs tonight.”
“You scored your first hat trick of the season on your home ice. How does that feel?”
Finally. “Real good. The whole team deserves a lot of credit for tonight’s win. I just happened to be in the right place when Daniel passed me the puck. Monty’s first assist since being called up from—”
“Mrs. Duffy’s in the lounge,” someone from the
Post Intelligencer
called out, and Jim turned toward the commotion in the doorway. “Thanks, Savage,” the reporter said and followed the stampede out of the locker room.
Ty buttoned the front of his blue dress shirt and shoved the tails into his gray wool pants. He glanced around at the guys, who looked as stunned as he was. This was the second game of the playoffs. They’d won in their own house and the coach had granted the press full access to the team. Reporters loved full access. They loved it like a kid loved cake, but the sudden appearance of Faith Duffy prompted an en masse exodus. Like rats bailing from a sinking boat. What the hell?
Ty pulled on his socks and shoved his feet into his shoes. He combed his fingers through his
damp hair and moved into the team’s lounge. Mrs. Duffy stood in the middle of the huge Chinooks logo woven into the blue carpet, smiling for the cameras and answering questions thrown at her by a knot of sports reporters. She looked almost fragile in the totally male environment. Beneath the bright lights and camera flash, her smooth hair shined, her skin kind of glowed, and her lips were a glistening pink. She wore a black suit that hugged her waist and buttoned beneath her breasts. He and the boys had worked their asses off tonight, and apparently all she had to do was show up all bright and shiny and the guys in the press went ape-shit nuts.
“What made you decide not to sell the team?” someone asked.
“My late husband, Virgil, knew how much I love hockey. He left me this team because he wanted me to be happy. It was only right that I keep it.”
What utter bullshit. Ty moved further into the room and shoved one shoulder into the doorway leading to the workout gym.
“What are your plans for the team?”
A smile curved her lips at the corners and damned if it wasn’t innocent and seductive all at the same time. She must have been one hell of a stripper. “To win the Stanley Cup. Virgil put together some great players, and I plan to do every
thing I can to make sure we bring the cup home to Seattle.”
“We hear there’s no plan to pick up Fetisov for next season.”
The corners of her mouth dipped and Darby Hogue stepped forward and saved her butt. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information,” Darby said, “but we have no plans to trade Vlad.” Then Coach Nystrom stepped forward and answered a few questions concerning trade restrictions while Mrs. Duffy smiled like she knew what he was talking about.
Ty glanced about the room at his teammates, and his gaze stopped on his father, who stood near the coaches offices talking to some woman in a lacy blouse and pink bra, and holding one of those hairy little dogs that yipped a lot. She was definitely the old man’s type: overblown, big blonde hair. Not bad looking but a little torn up around the edges. He wondered where the old man had managed to find her in the two hours since Ty had spoken to him.
“When was the last time you were at the Playboy Mansion?” a reporter asked, pulling Ty’s attention to the owner of the team.
A frown wrinkled her smooth brow. “Over five years ago.”
“Do you keep in touch with Hef?”
“No. While I appreciate Mr. Hefner and will always be grateful to him, my life is very different now.”
Ty half expected the reporters to ask for her number now that she was single. He thought of her naked photos in
Playboy
and wondered how many of them had seen her spread out across the pages.
“Tonight, the team had twenty combined penalty minutes. At the beginning of the playoffs, Coach Nystrom expressed his desire to keep penalty minutes per game at a minimum. Don’t you consider twenty excessive?” Jim asked the same question he’d asked Ty a few minutes earlier.
She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to comment on that at this time.” A man with dark hair and wearing a teal silk T-shirt stepped forward and whispered something in Faith’s ear. “Oh. Okay. Our penalty minutes were up and we never like to see that,” she parroted.
Ty might have laughed if he wasn’t so annoyed. The reporters all glanced at each other and instead of calling her on being such a bonehead, someone asked, “What did you think of tonight’s game?” Totally letting her off the hook.
“It was great. All the guys played very well.”
“Virgil put together a solid team. I know that he’d tried to sign Sean Toews. What happened?”
Toews wanted more money than he was worth. That’s what had happened.
“I’m not at liberty to answer that.”
“What did you think of your captain’s hat trick?”
Bastards had barely asked him about the hat trick. She smiled, and Ty doubted she even knew what a hat trick was.
“We’re ecstatic, of course. My late husband believed in Mr. Savage’s talent,” she said, once again pronouncing his name wrong.
“It’s Sah-vahge.” He spoke out loud before he gave it much thought.
The press turned and looked at him. He pushed away from the doorjamb. “Since you’re the owner of the team, you should know how to pronounce my name. It’s Sah-vahge. Not savage.”
She pushed up her smile. “Thank you. I apologize, Mr. Sah-vahge. And since I sign your checks, you should know that it’s Miss July. Not Miss January.”
T
he Gloria Thornwell Society met the third Thursday of every month. The Society had been named after founding member Gloria Thornwell in 1928, and it was the most exclusive organization in the state. Much more exclusive than the Junior League, which seemed to let in all manner of new-money riffraff these days.
The Society was filled with rich women whose husbands kept them in designer knits and funded their pet charities. This year it was a school in a
favela
in Rio de Janeiro. Admittedly a very worthy cause, although Faith had put in her vote for a more local charity this year. She’d been vetoed, as always.
She fingered her long strand of antique pearls between the lapels of her raincoat as she moved toward the building near Madison and Fourth. The Society was really strict about their dress code, and Faith adjusted the long sleeves of her cashmere sweater set beneath her slick coat as she reached for the front door. She was met in the lobby by Tabby Rutherford-Longstreet, wife of Frederick Longstreet, president and CEO of
Longstreet Financial
and one of Virgil’s longtime friends and business associates.
“Hello, Tabby,” she said as she pulled back her sleeve and checked her Rolex. Lunch always started at noon, and it was ten till. “Is everyone already here?” She moved toward the elevator and Tabby stepped between her and the buttons.
“Yes. Everyone is here. They sent me down to speak with you.”
“About?”
“We all agreed that Dodie Farnsworth-Noble should be put in charge of the entertainment committee for this year’s fund-raiser.
“That’s
my
job.” Faith looked into Tabby’s blue eyes surrounded by fine lines and pressed powder. “I’m the head of the entertainment committee.”
“We think it’s best if Dodie takes over that position.”
“Oh.” Before Virgil’s death, she’d worked tire
lessly on this year’s benefit. She’d already spoken to the Seattle Philharmonic, and her heart sank a little. “Then what’s my function?”
Tabby pasted a fake smile on her face. “We feel that with everything going on in your life right now, you won’t have time for your responsibilities.”
Sure, now that she owned a hockey team, she had a lot on her plate, but the Society’s work was important. “I understand your concern, but I assure you that I will make time,” she told Tabby. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Tabby placed a hand against her own throat and twisted her pearls. “Don’t force me to be unkind.”
“What?”
“We think it would be best if you voluntarily gave up your Society membership.”
She opened her mouth to ask why, but then she closed it again. They weren’t concerned that “with everything going on” in her life that she wouldn’t have the time. Virgil had once teased that after he died, all the wives of his friends and associates would kick her out of all their clubs because they couldn’t stand to have someone young and beautiful around their husbands. Virgil had been wrong. Most of their husbands had mistresses that the wives knew about. They didn’t want her because she hadn’t been born with a surname worthy of hyphenation. She’d known from the first meeting that they didn’t consider her a worthy member of
their society. Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten that she really wasn’t one of them. She was “riffraff.” No matter how hard she worked or how much money she’d raised.
“I see.” If Tabby thought Faith would cause a scene that the Society could all dine out on for months, she was wrong. “Best of luck to you,” she said. “I hope this year’s fund-raiser is an unqualified success.” She smiled and turned toward the front of the building as heat rose up her chest and tightened her throat. Her hand shook as she opened the door and walked outside into the cool afternoon air. Tears pinched the backs of her eyes and she fumbled in her purse for her sunglasses. She would not cry. Would not care about people who did not care about her.
She could sic her team of lawyers on their asses and make them sorry. She could ruin their day as much as they’d ruined hers, but what would that solve? Nothing. They would be forced to accept her back into the Society. Back into a world where she wasn’t wanted.
Faith shoved her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose and looked up the street to where she’d parked her car. She had two hours before her meeting with the PR department of the Chinooks. She thought of the short drive to her penthouse where she could curl up in bed and pull the covers over her head. She thought of her mother in the
shower when she’d left, and Pebbles snapping and barking as she tried to pull her Valentino peep toe from the dog’s mouth.
She didn’t feel like dealing with her mother and Evil Pebbles, so she wandered a few blocks without direction. She thought of Tabby’s face and cool smile. The gloomy overcast day fit her mood, and she thought of marching right back to the Society and telling them what horrible, supercilious, pretentious bitches they were. Instead, she found herself in front of the Fairmont Hotel and walked into the familiar lobby. Shuckers Oyster Bar had been one of her and Virgil’s favorite places to eat lunch. She was shown a table and sank into a chair, finding comfort in the familiar surroundings.
Getting thrown out of the Gloria Thornwell Society was horribly humiliating. They’d meant it as a hot slap across her face, and it stung like hell. It hurt a lot more than she wanted to admit. At one time she wouldn’t have let it bother her. Living with Virgil had made her soft.
She’d always known that those women weren’t her friends—not really—but she never thought they’d toss her out of a
charitable
organization two weeks after her husband’s death. She wished like hell Virgil was at home so she could talk to him about what had happened. Of course, if Virgil were at home, they wouldn’t have booted her out
on her ass. There was no one at home to whom she could rant or vent or even talk to about it.
The waitress approached with a menu and Faith opened it. She wasn’t hungry, but she ordered clam chowder, Dungeness crab, and a glass of chardonnay, because that’s what she always ordered at Shuckers. As she raised her glass to her lips, she glanced about the restaurant. She became suddenly aware of the fact that she was the only person dining alone, which added to her already frazzled nerves and hot humiliation. But this was her life now and she’d better learn how to get used to it. If there was one thing Faith knew how to do, it was how to adapt. Being alone after five years of marriage was something she’d just have to adjust to.
As she sat within the richly carved oak paneling of the oyster bar and ate her chowder, she pretended an interest in the tin ceiling. The restaurant was filled with people, but she had never felt so alone in her life. The last time she’d felt this self-conscious was the first time she’d stripped to her G-string. Sitting there by herself felt a bit like being naked in public.
The people with whom she’d socialized for the past five years were Virgil’s friends. As she picked at her crab and ordered a second glass of wine, she wondered how many of those
friends
were going
to ostracize her now. Without Virgil, she didn’t have friends of her own, and she wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. The friends she’d had in Vegas before her marriage lived a lifestyle she’d left behind. Some of them had been really great girls, but these days she couldn’t imagine knocking back cherry bombs and partying till the sun came up. She’d lost touch with the few friends she’d made at Playboy.
Somewhere in the last five years, she’d lost herself. Or at least, whom she’d been. She’d become someone else, but if she was no longer a part of Seattle society, where did she belong? She was a former stripper and playmate. Her mother was a flake, and she hadn’t seen her father since 1988. For the past five years she’d played the role of a rich man’s wife, but who was she now that he was gone?
As her lunch dishes were cleared away, the waitress recited the dessert menu. It was on the tip of Faith’s tongue to refuse. To bolt from the restaurant and the uncomfortable situation, but like the first time she’d reached for a stripper pole, she forced herself to endure it. To get through it until the next time, when it would be easier.
She ordered vanilla-bean crème brûlée, and for good measure, another glass of wine. Which
probably wasn’t a great idea since she had a meeting in just a bit, but she’d had a very bad day.
She’d been kicked to the curb by the charitable society she’d belonged to for five years. That alone was enough to justify a few drinks. Add to that her sudden identity crisis, and hell, she deserved the whole damn bottle.
After a few minutes, the dessert arrived and she broke the hard sugary top with a spoon. As a child, she’d dreamed of crème brûlée. To a poor kid raised in northeast Reno it had sounded rich. Exotic.
She took a bite and the rich custard tasted smooth on her tongue. She thought of her meeting with the PR and marketing departments. They’d said they had an exciting concept to promote ticket sales. She wondered what they’d come up with.
“Savage,” Coach Nystrom called from the doorway of the locker room. “You’re wanted upstairs in the conference room.”
Ty pulled his practice sweatshirt over his head. “What’s up?”
“Don’t know.” The coach glanced at his clipboard. “The rest of you hit the ice.”
Ty shoved his feet into a pair of Nike flip-flops and walked from the dressing room and through the lounge. The bottoms of the rubber soles slapped
his heels as he moved down the hallway to the elevator. He hoped it was important. He had to hop on a flight in the morning and head to Vancouver for Game Five. The Chinooks were ahead 3–1 in the series, but that could easily change, and he needed the ice time with his teammates.
Before he hit the
UP
button for the elevator, the doors slid open and the Widow Duffy stood inside. A pair of sunglasses covered her eyes and her full lips were painted red. Ty placed his hand on one side to keep the door open for her. “Hello, Mrs. Duffy.”
“Hello.” She had a raincoat thrown over one arm, and she wore some ugly beige sweater set and pearls, like she was an over-fifty socialite on her way to some “save the starving orphans” meeting. Despite her sedate clothes, she was hot as hell and overblown sexy.
She stood there looking at him through the beige lenses and he was forced to ask, “Is this your floor?”
“Actually, I’m on my way up.” She pushed the glasses to the top of her windblown hair. “I’m a little distracted and accidentally hit the wrong button.”
Ty stepped inside and the door closed behind him. He hit the Number Two button and the elevator started to move. “Have a liquid lunch?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes and clamped her mouth closed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said through pursed lips.
He shoved a shoulder into the mirrored wall and clarified. “I’m talking about you smelling boozy.”
Her big green eyes widened and she opened her bag to dig around inside. “I’ve had a very rough day.” She pulled out a piece of cinnamon gum. “Very rough.”
She owned a hockey team worth close to 200 million. How rough could it be? “Break a nail?” He half expected her to check her red fingernails before she stuck the gum in her mouth.
“My life is more complicated than worrying about a broken nail.” She chewed, then added, “Very complicated, and now that Virgil is gone, everything has changed. I don’t know what to do.”
He wondered if she was one of those women who liked to talk about their problems with strangers. Lord, he hoped not, and raised his gaze to the ceiling, purposely breaking eye contact so she wouldn’t feel free to unburden herself.
Thankfully, the elevator opened and Ty followed Faith down the hall to the conference room. He stepped ahead of her and opened the door.
She looked up into his eyes as she passed, close
enough that her purse brushed the front of his sweatshirt. “Thank you,” she said, smelling like cinnamon and flowers.
“You’re welcome.” His gaze slid down her back to her behind, covered in a pair of dull beige pants, and he had to admit that the woman’s body did amazing things to her boring clothes. Stepping inside the room, he came to a sudden halt. He put his hand on his hip and stared at the billboard mock-ups propped up on easels about the space.
“Hello, everyone,” Faith said, all cheery as she hung her coat over a chair and took a seat beside her assistant at the conference table.
In contrast to Mrs. Duffy’s cheerfulness, Ty asked, “What the hell is this? A joke?”
A woman named Bo something or other from the public relations department shook her head. “No. We need to capitalize on the coverage we’ve received and all the media attention we’ve been getting.” She pointed to a drawing of two people standing back to back with the caption “Can Beauty Tame the Savage Beast?” “The media seems to think there’s a problem between the two of you, and we want to use that to our advantage.”
The PR director, Tim Cummins, added, “Of course we know that there is no real problem.”
But there was a problem. A big one. Ty took a seat across from Faith and folded his arms across his chest. He and the boys had worked their asses
off the last four game nights and all the press had been able to write about was “the palpable friction” between him and Mrs. Duffy. In the sports section last Sunday, the
Seattle Times
had devoted a full three paragraphs to the supposed “sparks” before they’d gotten around to mentioning his hat trick or goalie Marty Darche’s impressive thirty-six saves. Frankie Kawczynski had broken a finger mixing it up in the corner with Doug Weight, and all she’d had to do was breeze into the lounge with her blonde hair and big boobs and the press corps lost its damn mind. If anything, he wanted her less visible. Less involved with the press. Not more.
Faith looked up from the press clippings in front of her. “I had no idea they blew that up and made something of it.” Her big green eyes looked up at him. “Did you?”
“Of course. You didn’t read the Chinooks coverage?” What had she been doing?
“Jules has given them to me, but I’ve been busy.”