Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (20 page)

Sam Leclaire was a good-looking son of a bitch. Everyone thought so. Everyone from sportswriters to soccer moms.

The girl wrapped up in his sheets thought so, too. Although she wasn’t really a girl. She was a woman.

“I don’t see why I can’t go.”

Sam glanced up from the knot in his tie and looked through the mirror at the supermodel in his bed. Her name was Veronica Del Toro, but she was known by just her first name. Like Tyra and Heidi and Giselle.

“Because I didn’t know you were going to be in town,” he explained for the tenth time. “Bringing a guest at this late date would be rude.” Which wasn’t the real reason.

“But I’m Veronica.”

Now there. There was the real reason. She was rude and narcissistic. Not that he held that against anyone. He could be rude and narcissistic himself, but unlike the stories written about him, he really did know when to behave.

“I won’t eat much.”

Try not at all. That’s one of the things that irritated him about Veronica. She never ate. She ordered food like she was starving, but she pushed it around her plate.

Sam slid up the knot and tilted his chin to one side as he buttoned down the collar. “I already called you a cab.” Through the mirror he watched Veronica rise from his bed and walk toward him. She moved across his carpet as if she were on the catwalk. All long legs and arms and hardly a jiggle.

“When are you going to be back?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around his waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked at him through dark brown eyes.

Sam tilted his head to one side and, as he buttoned the last collar point, he glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was already half past six and the wedding started at seven. He really hadn’t had time to meet Veronica. But she wasn’t in town that often and she’d promised a quickie. He should have known better. “Late. When do you fly out?”

“In the morning.” She sighed and slid her long hands up his dress shirt to his hard pecs. “I could wait.”

He turned, and her palms slid to his waist. “I don’t know when I’ll get back. This thing could run real late.” Although with the start of the regular season just around the corner, he doubted it. He pushed her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Call me the next time you’re in Seattle.”

“That could be months, and by then you’ll be on the road playing hockey.” She dropped her hands and moved toward the bed.

He watched her skinny behind as she stepped into her tiny panties. There were a lot of things to like about Veronica. He just hoped she didn’t get all clingy on him. “We can always meet up on the road again.”

“True.” She reached for a black T-shirt, pulling it over her head before stepping into a pair of jeans. “But by then you’ll have a black eye.”

He grinned. “True.” He grabbed his suit jacket and slid his arms inside. Last season he’d hooked up with her in Pittsburgh. That night against the Penguins, he’d scored a goal, spent four minutes in the sin bin for a double minor, and got his first major shiner of the season. Maybe she’d bring him the same sort of luck this year. He reached for his wallet and shoved it into the back pocket of his khaki trousers.

After Veronica slid her feet into a pair of pumps, they walked from the bedroom of Sam’s downtown loft. Gray shadows hugged the scarce furnishings as misty sunlight cast dull patterns across the wood floor.

Sam held the front door open for Veronica, then locked it behind him. He moved down the hall and his thoughts turned to the game in less than a month against San Jose. The Sharks had been knocked out of the first round of the playoffs last season, but that didn’t mean a guaranteed win for the Chinooks in this season’s opener. Not by a long shot. The Sharks would be hungry and some of the Chinooks had partied a little too hard during the off season. Johan and Logan were each carrying ten extra pounds around the middle. Vlad was drinking like a sailor on leave and the organization had yet to officially name a new captain.

“I love weddings,” Veronica said through a sigh as they moved to the elevator.

Everyone assumed Walker Brooks would be captain, but nothing had been announced.

The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” He pushed the button to the lobby.

“Love weddings.”

“Not particularly.” Weddings were about as much fun as getting his cup rung.

They rode to the bottom floor in silence and Sam placed his hand in the small of Veronica’s back as they walked across the lobby. Two heavy glass and stainless steel doors slid open and a yellow cab waited by the curb.

He kissed her good-bye, then said, “Call me the next time you’re in town,” as he shut the cab door.

Misty clouds clung to the Seattle skyline as Sam walked to the corner and headed two blocks toward Fourth Avenue and the Rainier Club. Life was good. Last season the Seattle Chinooks won the Stanley Cup and Sam’s name would forever be inscribed on hockey’s highest prize. The memory of holding the cup over his head as he skated in front of the hometown crowd brought a smile to his lips.

Within several moments, he caught sight of the old, exclusive club with its aged brick and carefully trimmed lawn that reeked of money. His professional life was on a high. Through blood, sweat, and hard work, he’d reached every goal he’d ever set for himself. He had more money then he’d ever thought he’d make in one lifetime and his personal life was pretty good, too. Women loved him and he loved them back. Probably a little too much sometimes.

He walked beneath the Rainier Club’s black awning and a doorman greeted him. The inside of the prestigious club was so stuffy that he had a sudden urge to take off his shoes as when he’d been a kid and his mom got a new carpet. A few of the guys hung out at the bottom of a wide staircase looking a little uneasy, but otherwise good in their designer suits and summer tans. In two months, several of them would be sporting black eyes and a few stitches.

“Nice of you to make it,” forward Daniel Holstrom said as he approached.

Harp music drifted down the stairs as Sam peeled back the cuff of his shirt and looked at his Rolex. “Ten minutes to spare,” he said. “What are you all waiting for?”

“Frankie and Logan aren’t here yet,” goalie Marty Darche answered.

“Savage make it?” Sam asked, referring to the groom.

“I spotted him about ten minutes ago. First time I’ve ever seen him break a sweat off the ice. He’s probably nervous that the bride has come to her senses and is halfway to Vashon.”

Sam laughed as a shiny auburn ponytail and smooth profile caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned. His laughter stopped. A woman moved across the lobby toward the front doors, talking into the tiny microphone in front of her mouth. A black sweater hugged her body and a little battery pack was clipped to her black pants. Sam’s brows lowered and acid settled in the pit of his stomach. If there was one woman on the planet who hated his guts, it was the woman disappearing through the front doors.

Daniel put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, Sam, isn’t that your wife?”

Marty turned toward the front. “You have a wife?”

“Ex-wife.” The acid chewed its way up toward Sam’s esophagus. “She’s my
ex
-wife.”

Daniel laughed like he thought something was real funny. “Does being married for three days really count?”

Have you missed any
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Welcome to Gospel, Idaho, where everyone knows that every sin known to heaven and earth is all California’s fault. In TRUE CONFESSIONS, you’ll see what happens when Californian Hope Spencer comes to town and falls for local sheriff Dylan Taber…

U
sually, Dylan didn’t mind helping in the search for missing backpackers. It got him out of the office and away from the paperwork he hated. But he’d been kept awake most of the night by Adam’s puppy, and he wasn’t looking forward to a nine-thousand-foot climb. He walked to the driver’s side of the Blazer and shoved a hand inside the pocket of his tan pants. He pulled out the “cool” rock Adam had given him that morning and stuck it in his breast pocket. It wasn’t even noon yet, and his cotton uniform was already stuck to his back. Shit.

“What in the hell is that?”

Dylan glanced across the top of the Chevy at Lewis, then turned his attention to the silver sports car driving toward him.

“He must have taken a wrong turn before he hit Sun Valley,” Lewis guessed. “Must be lost.”

In Gospel, where the color of a man’s neck favored the color red and where pickup trucks and power rigs ruled the roads, a Porsche was about as inconspicuous as a gay rights parade marching toward the pearly gates.

“If he’s lost, someone will tell him,” Dylan said as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket once more and found his keys. “Sooner or later,” he added. In the resort town of Sun Valley, a Porsche wasn’t that rare a sight, but in the wilderness area, it was damn unusual. A lot of the roads in Gospel weren’t even paved. And some of those that weren’t had potholes the size of basketballs. If that little car took a wrong turn, it was bound to lose an oil pan or an axle.

The car rolled slowly past, its tinted windows concealing whoever was inside. Dylan dropped his gaze to the iridescent vanity license plate with the seven blue letters spelling out MZBHAVN. If that wasn’t bad enough, splashed across the top of the plate like a neon kick-me sign was the word “California” painted in red. Dylan hoped like hell the car pulled an illegal U and headed right back out of town.

Instead, the Porsche pulled into a space in front of the Blazer and the engine died. The driver’s door swung open. One turquoise, silver-toed Tony Lama hit the pavement and a slender bare arm reached out to grasp the top of the doorframe. Glimmers of light caught on a thin gold watch wrapped around a slim wrist. Then MZBHAVN stood, looking for all the world like she was stepping out of one of those women’s glamour magazines that gave beauty tips.

“Holy shit,” Lewis uttered.