Her Man Advantage Page 7

  “Why did he fake shoot you with the finger gesture like an eight-year-old? Was that some kind of sick joke?” Her thoughts went to her sister, who had weathered all kinds of bullying and threats at her school. Jennifer knew plenty about the subtle coercions girls used on one another to maintain their power and social standing. But she was out of her element with the more overt intimidation tactics men used.

  “Reader’s Digest version—I was in a motorcycle club in Finland when I was a teenage moron. It’s more like a gang than a club—once you’re in you do not get out.”

  Up ahead, the airstrip became visible. The sight of civilization made her breathe easier and her heart rate slowed.

  “He was threatening you.” She didn’t understand all the details but she knew that much. And this time she wasn’t jumping to conclusions.

  “I am not sure what he wanted. I’ve never seen him before.” Axel’s jaw flexed when he spoke, his whole body tense as he steered them through the main gate. “But he was definitely sending me a message that I’ve pissed off the powers that be in the organization. I’m guessing it has something to do with this film you’re making.”

  “How would they know about the film? Furthermore, why would it upset them so much they felt the need to risk that biker’s life to send their message?” Whatever happened to phone calls? And what if Axel really was in danger?

  Jennifer’s stomach knotted at the thought. She’d only just met him, but already she felt a powerful connection to him. Sure, she might not want to act on it. Shouldn’t act on it. But the pull of it was undeniable.

  The team bus unloaded near the plane while Axel parked the SUV.

  “I don’t think the Destroyers are going to appreciate seeing my lifestyle broadcast to twenty different countries while they’re still scrapping over drug territories in Helsinki. I had a sense from the moment I walked away that they’d come back for me once I achieved some fame and social standing.”

  “To steal from you? Blackmail you? And how involved were you with this group, by the way?” She was trying to get as many details from him as possible before they boarded the plane.

  She could see why he wouldn’t want to discuss it in a public forum. Besides, she needed to meet with her crew and edit some raw film footage on the trip to Montreal.

  “I ran messages and—before I was old enough to know what I was doing—I’m sure I must have run drugs, too.” He handed her back her keys. “I have no idea what they want from me now, but I’m obviously back on their radar.”

  She slid the keys in her purse, stunned.

  “You were part of a gang.” She envisioned hockey players as pampered athletes, funded by families with the money to drive their kids to far-flung games to hone their skills. She knew from an internet search the night before that his foster family in the U.S. was wealthy and influential, owning a global hotel conglomerate. “How old were you?”

  “Eight when I first started going to the clubhouse with my stepfather. By the time he left my mother three years later, I knew better than to take a package with me when I ran messages and I’d quit doing that part of it, but I was already well entrenched.” He levered open the driver’s-side door. “We’d better get going. We don’t want to miss the plane.”

  Jennifer remained in her seat, still processing this new piece of information that didn’t fit with her image of Axel Rankin at all.

  A shiver of unease went through her. “This documentary could be really dangerous for you.” Now she understood his vocal opposition to her project. His resentment about showing her around the practice arena that day.

  “I was on the phone all afternoon talking to my foster family to make sure they know I could be back on the gang’s radar after the documentary airs. But as it turns out, I’m already back in the crosshairs.”

  Cold dread knotted in her stomach.

  “You really think they might—” She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Try to hurt you?”

  “At this point, that’s the least of my concerns.” He covered her hand with his, his blue eyes darker than usual. “I’m more worried that this film may be dangerous for you. When we come back to Philadelphia two days from now, you need to be careful.”

  7

  PHILADELPHIA 2, MONTREAL 1.

  Vincent Girard liked the look of the numbers on the scoreboard as he skated off the ice the next afternoon following a narrow win in overtime. The team’s playmaker, Kyle Murphy, had made the game-winning goal with eighteen seconds to spare, the shot fed to him on a sweet pass by his foster brother, Axel. The two of them were something to see in a game situation—their passes to each other did not miss.

  The arena was quiet after the hometown team’s loss. Most fans shuffled toward the exits, but a few Philly fans stuck around to cheer for the Phantoms as they filed off the ice toward the tunnel that would take them into the visitors’ locker room. Vinny’s eyes went to the stands in search of Chelsea, the way they did after every game.

  What kind of guy waited nine months to make a move? He kept thinking she’d come around—open her eyes to his obvious attraction—sooner or later. But the waiting was killing him and it was becoming clear that she’d never see he wanted more unless he pushed.

  A big freaking gamble when she’d made it known the players were like brothers to her, nothing more. He risked a lot here. Risked losing her completely.

  “Way to go, Vinny!” a woman shouted, and he recognized Misty’s singsong voice above him as he neared the tunnel.

  Peering up through the flutter of waving programs where fans tried to entice players to give autographs, he saw Chelsea and her friends. Misty was in front, pushing through the small crowd to claim a spot at the rail. Chelsea, Rosa and Keiko circled behind her. And was it his imagination, or did Chelsea hang back more than usual tonight?

  He’d started to implement his more assertive strategy with her today when he’d given her the GPS. Had she started retreating from him already?

  “Thanks, Misty.” He lifted a hand to return her high five, pausing near the rail while the other guys milled around signing autographs and hats. “How did you make out on the trip up here? Did you get good directions?”

  He knew the unit he’d bought was state-of-the-art, but until you got familiar with the settings, GPS devices could lead you down some unusual paths. His GPS in Minnesota had expected him to travel through a precarious mountain pass in January to deliver hay to a customer. The maps didn’t always take seasonal roads or construction into account.

  “I’ll let Chelsea tell you about it.” Misty tugged her friend toward the rail while she stepped back, obviously wise to his attraction. “No hurry, Chels. We’re going to help the promo guys pack up the Phantoms hats.”

  Sweat dripped in Vinny’s left eye, but the toll of the game didn’t detract from his body’s automatic response to the woman he’d wanted for months.

  Chelsea Durant wasn’t particularly tall—five foot six, maybe—but she carried herself with strength and elegance. Her posture was perfect, her shoulders squared. Despite being a shy woman—at least with men—she never walked with her head down. Her chin tilted up, fierce determination and pride broadcast for all to see.

  His very first night on the ice as an NHL player had landed him in an unwise fight with another player, giving the opposing team a key power play that led to a goal against the Phantoms. He’d also missed two passes, one of which led to a turnover.

  It hadn’t been pretty. After the game, some wise-guy fan had told him to go back to Minnesota. Then, out of nowhere, Chelsea had butted her way in front of the guy. She suggested he go to Minnesota instead, and leave the job of cheering on the Phantoms to real fans.

  “You had a great game,” Chelsea told him now, leaning down over the rail in a way that made his heart beat faster.

  She reached for him, surprising the hell out of him. Had she gotten the message? Returned his interest?

  Then, while he held his breath, she brushed the sweat from his eye a
nd her hand came away bloody.

  “You need to get that cut stitched,” she told him, her light brown eyebrows knitted in concern. “I was surprised they didn’t take you out of the game. What was Nico thinking?”

  While she grumbled about the coach’s need to win at all costs, Vinny realized it had been blood dripping in his eye more than sweat.

  “It’s nothing.” He didn’t want to get noticed for opening a vein.

  A few of his teammates brushed past him, returning to the locker room. The coach would want to talk to them all before they showered and changed into street clothes.

  “It’s not nothing. That’s three stitches at least.” She reached for him again and this time, he closed his eyes, willing her hands to linger. “You need to see the medic.”

  When her touch came, it was soft. Gentle. She swiped at a damp spot above his eye, her fingers smoothing along his temple toward his helmet.

  “I’ll get it stitched if you’ll have dinner with me.”

  Her hand stilled on his face. He opened his eyes.

  She looked so surprised and wary that he debated rephrasing the invitation, including other people in a group meal. But he’d done that six months ago and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere. He needed time alone with her.

  “I… That is, the girls and I were going to drive to New York tonight.”

  She snatched back her fingers suddenly, as if she’d only just realized she still touched him. He was pretty sure he could have waxed poetic for a few hours about how much he wanted her hands on him again, but he didn’t think some big romantic outpouring was going to advance his cause.

  “So wait an hour or two. You need to eat.”

  “I don’t want to get sleepy on the road tonight if I get a late start.” She hadn’t said “no” outright yet. Was it so pathetic that he took this as a good sign?

  “You can call me from the road later if you feel tired and we’ll talk. I’ll keep you awake.”

  God knows, he’d lost plenty of sleep to thinking about her before. He’d gladly trade the rest for a chance to hear her voice in his ear in the middle of the night.

  Around them, the last of the players went inside and some of the other fans turned his way, no doubt thinking he was there to sign autographs, too.

  Normally, he was happy to stick around and sign. But right now he kept his eyes on Chelsea, willing her to say yes.

  “I don’t know, Vincent.” She bit her lip, her dark eyes filled with worry. “I’m not like the other girls around here.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t really date or anything, so…”

  “I just want to talk.” He didn’t care that he was hanging his personal life out for all the world to see. For twenty fans to dissect and—of course—an ever-present camera guy to record. But he did lower his voice when he remembered the videographer must still be behind him. “Get to know you. Clothes stay on, cross my heart, Boy Scout promise and I really was one, Eagle Scout no less. Wanna see my badges?”

  He’d worry about dating another day.

  She sucked in a gasp and he knew a moment’s dread that she was going to slam the door in his face forever. Instead, she reached out once more to stop the blood flow from his eyebrow down into his eye.

  “I’ll go.” The wariness on her face had been replaced with that fierce determination that he recognized as a core part of her character, a compelling piece of her personality that attracted him so thoroughly. “But you’re going to see the medic right now.”

  He meant to thank her and leave. Count his blessings and not be greedy for more.

  But he ended up covering her hand with his, pressing her touch to his face for a moment before he shifted her fingers down to his mouth. Pushing his luck when he should just be grateful for her consent, he brushed a kiss into the soft center of her palm.

  Savoring the taste of her on his lips, he took off into the tunnel and hoped she would really show up for dinner. Because after waiting nine months for Chelsea Durant, Vinny didn’t think he could delay being with her another minute.

  Can I come to your room?

  Jennifer erased the text rather than sending it. It was half an hour after Axel’s game, and she was alone in her hotel room. She’d just finished typing her notes about the win over Montreal, already full of ideas for narration of the exciting overtime defeat. But she wasn’t as skilled with words when it came to texting Axel. Her attempts to see him tonight sounded so sordid. But honestly, she just needed a private place to speak to Axel where the camera guys wouldn’t spot them.

  Still, she understood the risks of being alone with the sexy Finn. He’d told her that he didn’t plan to stop kissing her. Just that he’d make sure they were behind locked doors.

  The memory of that conversation still made her pulse race. She shivered at the thought of where this unwise relationship was headed. Because in spite of the attraction, she did not want to be some decorative accessory on the arm of a successful athlete. Big-time sports stars were notorious for womanizing and living large. She didn’t want any part of the jet-set lifestyle with houses on both coasts and a garage full of cars that were never driven more than two miles.

  Jennifer considered herself a social activist, not a footnote in the society pages.

  Is there anywhere we can speak privately? she typed, thinking that sounded more dignified. Less provocative.

  Hitting Send on her phone, she turned her attention back to her laptop and the raw footage of the game her crew had uploaded to a shared site. Part of her wanted to zoom in on Ax when he raced up the ice at lightning speed, giving him the credit that his talents warranted.

  But how could she highlight a man who might be hunted by a biker gang with a vendetta? Using the footage could endanger him.

  Beside her, the cell phone vibrated and she lifted it to see an incoming message.

  On my way to your room now.

  Anticipation slid through her veins, slow and smoky. He’d carried her bag to her room for her the night before, after the plane had landed in Montreal. So he must remember the number. She hadn’t been able to sit with him on the flight, needing that time with her film crew to work on editing rough footage of their first documentary episode, which would air in three days. The network dictated the fast turnaround time, requiring the story lines to be current and to reflect the most recent games.

  That meant there were two more days until that kiss aired for all the world to see. Two days before her credibility as a director took a hit and her status as a social activist fell into question. After all, she’d locked lips with an affluent athlete whose position with the powerful international Murphy Resorts Corporation was assured after his sports career. Axel Rankin was part of the elite that she loved to battle against.

  The knock at her door startled her.

  Breath rushed from her lungs. She knew that as she opened that door, opposing worldviews and backgrounds wouldn’t matter. Logic didn’t come into play with how she felt about Axel, no matter how much she wanted to sweep her feelings under the rug.

  “Hurry,” came a low voice from the hallway. “I think one of your camera guys is coming up the stairs.”

  Crap.

  She unbolted the lock and pulled the door wide, keeping an eye out for the blinking red record light. Luckily, the corridor remained quiet as Ax brushed past her into the narrow foyer leading into her room.

  “Hi,” she said lamely, locking the door and turning to face him. “Great game.”

  Back against the wall, she stared at him in the dim room, only the TV and her laptop on the bed providing any light. He wore khakis and a casual blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. She remembered the feel of those arms around her when he’d caught her climbing down from the rafters two days ago. The memory made her skin tighten and hum with awareness. He smelled clean and yummy, his hair still damp from a shower.

  She curled her hands into fists at her sides to keep from tugging him closer.

  “I’m having the b
est season of my career,” he admitted, though he seemed a little annoyed about it.

  Was she reading him wrong?

  “That’s terrific.” She was the queen of scintillating conversation tonight, wasn’t she? But it took all her brainpower to keep her hands off him.

  “It should be.” His jaw flexed as he stared at her, some inner turmoil seething beneath the surface.

  “But?”

  “But I’m going to mess it up by getting involved with a woman.”

  She felt light-headed suddenly. Her blood seemed to rush somewhere, but she couldn’t tell where it was going in such a hurry. She only knew her knees felt like jelly and her temples kind of tingled.

  “How do you know that will hurt your season?” She could hardly hear the words she spoke since her heart thudded with deafening thumps.

  “Any woman would be a distraction from the game, and you?” He stepped closer. “You’re distraction to the hundredth power.”

  “We…” Her mouth went dry and she couldn’t speak. She had to lick her lips to get the words out. “We should discuss that.”

  His gaze zeroed in on her lips and she became hyperaware of the moisture drying there. Damned if she didn’t feel her heartbeat pound there, too, her lower lip trembling with the effect.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can do anything besides kiss you right now.” His left hand sifted through her curls, one finger twining around a piece.

  She swayed toward him, powerless to hold back.

  “Did you notice I locked the door?”

  His hand curved around the nape of her neck, warm and commanding, but gentle all the same. Her head tipped back, eyes glued to his as he circled her waist with one arm.

  “I’ve been thinking about having you behind a locked door at least once a minute for the past forty-eight hours.” His voice hit a husky note that reverberated through her.

  Fingers uncurling, she lifted her arms to slide them around his neck, her breasts meeting the hard wall of his chest.