Книга - Everybody’s Hero

Everybody's Hero
Tracy Kelleher


Picture-perfect. That's what Claire Marsden thinks when she first photographs professional hockey star Jason Doyle. Little does Claire know that Jason thinks the same of the beautiful magazine photographer. It's not long before she has him masquerading as a fake fiance…for her friend Trish, but soon Claire's the one thinking romance!Jason Doyle has seen it all, but now he only has eyes for the smart 'n' sassy photographer who's got him in her viewfinder. Helping Trish just lands him in a heap of sexy trouble. He's doing his best to pretend he's head over heels for Claire's best friend, but it's Claire he can't keep his hands off. If his secret desire is discovered, will Jason be keeping his reputation as everybody's hero?









“I like it, the red light gives it that bordello appeal.”


Claire pursed her lips at Jason’s comment. “Oh, please. There’s nothing sexy about a darkroom.” She searched for her supplies. “I hate it when I can’t find a thing.”

“Wanna bet?” Jason came up behind her.

“That I can’t find anything?” She arched her neck to scan a high shelf.

His hand came around, touching her chin. He gently turned her head sideways, then eased her body around to face him. “I meant about this place being sexy.” He stepped closer and kissed her lightly on the lips.

“I see what you mean,” she said when the kiss was over. She tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t, instead, she leaned into him and kissed him deeply.

He lifted her onto the countertop and worked a hand beneath her shirt. “This bra is just killing me.”

It was her turn and she ran her fingers around his neck, then into his thick dark hair. “Well, I’m sure we can figure a way to put you out of your suffering.”


Dear Reader,

Being raised in upstate New York, I spent many a cold winter evening at an ice rink watching the best college hockey players. As a kid, I used to fantasize about being called down from the stands to don my skates and score the winning goal for the home team. Well, I grew up and so did my fantasies. I began to wonder who those superior athletes really were. And even more to the point, what did they look like without all the pads and equipment? With Jason Doyle, star player for the New York Blades, I got to create my own answers. And who better to find out the intimate details than a wisecracking, independent photographer. Claire Marsden’s trotted around the world more than a few times, but she’s never come across the likes of Jason!

As a new member of the Temptation family, I am delighted to join the ranks of such talented storytellers and writers. Over the years, I have been an avid reader of romance fiction, and I know of no other literary genre as consistently satisfying and well written. And to me, nothing spices up a romance as much as two quick-witted protagonists who can verbally spar—in and out of bed. A sense of humor can truly be the most effective form of foreplay.

Hope you enjoy reading Jason and Claire’s story—either in or out of bed!

All the best,

Tracy Kelleher


Everybody’s Hero

Tracy Kelleher






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Peter and James,

two great guys.




Contents


Chapter 1 (#u7fdc58a8-e2ba-5426-88be-f96512ccae18)

Chapter 2 (#ud77b116f-785e-5af2-bd58-28b0719770eb)

Chapter 3 (#u6c09a180-27a5-5e36-8793-a13ce2d9acb0)

Chapter 4 (#ub5ba5059-3409-586d-a376-47b3e84c5c64)

Chapter 5 (#u88fefaf4-7c20-56c8-ad0c-d5b9525e10ec)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




1


IT WAS OVER a jelly donut that Claire Marsden found the man of her dreams.

For her best friend, Trish, that is. Trish, who in high school was known as Patti with an “i.”

Of course, high school had been a time of pastel turtlenecks and friendship bracelets. Now Trish was more into skimpy black knits and chunky quartz jewelry, and names ending with an “i” were definitely déclassé.

But Claire, being Claire, was not about to let her friend’s sophisticated transformation pass unnoticed. Whenever she felt Trish was acting a bit uppity, she referred to her as “The Magazine Editor Formerly Known as Patti.” A statement that was both annoying and true. And now that they were working together, Claire had ample opportunity to razz her friend.

Still, right now, Trish’s morphing persona was the last thing on Claire’s mind. In fact, she realized, it was hard to have anything on her mind, when in front of her appeared a vision of male glory that would tongue-tie even the most jaded Hollywood leading lady—with or without changing names.

Claire only hoped her cerebral shutdown was temporary. Because if she really wanted to be honest about her feelings, Jason Doyle could easily be the man of her own dreams.

After all, how many men pull up in front of Madison Square Garden in New York City on a fire-engine-red Italian motorcycle, on time no less? But then, honesty about her own feelings was not something Claire analyzed with any great depth.

For now, she’d just enjoy the show. And thank the gods for delivering her next assignment, who, Claire was convinced, would be the perfect solution to Trish’s current problems—and dreams.

Jason Doyle was also the answer to the professional hockey league’s dreams. All two hundred and ten, well-proportioned pounds of him. Recently traded to the New York Blades, his aggressive style and league-leading scoring appealed to men. The women weren’t immune, either, what with his devilish smile and sexy comma-shaped scar that cupped the outside corner of his right eye. The combination made him look as if he was slyly winking at some inside joke, which only he and that certain female understood. Naturally, any woman who’d ever applied lip gloss imagined herself to be that certain one.

Until now Jason had limited his commercial—and bodily exposure—to a few tasteful endorsements and a calendar to support research for children’s causes. Funny how those backlighted shots of his well-oiled biceps had landed in more than a few tabloids. Or maybe not so funny, Claire reflected as she took in the way his black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders.

Being a self-proclaimed cynic should have made her intrinsically immune to Jason’s easy charm and over-thetop brand of maleness. But her cynicism appeared to have gone temporarily AWOL, especially when Jason pulled off his helmet and whipped off his mirrored sunglasses as easily as spreading cream cheese on a warm bagel. Only a fool could ignore the way her stomach did a major flip-flop, and Claire’s daddy hadn’t raised a fool. Jason Doyle was every bit as scrumptious; and twice as dangerous as in his photos.

Claire stiffened. That danger, coupled with that mega-powered motorcycle, signaled a personality that enjoyed living on the edge. She had had enough of that kind of life, thank you. These days, give her calm, boring consistency. Maybe a picket fence. Well, maybe not a picket fence.

But danger, or the allure of it, was just what the doctor ordered for Trish, and Claire was about to put her plan in motion. She was sure her friend would be pleased. Claire elbowed Trish. “Hubba, hubba.”

“You can say that again.” Trish smoothed her hands down the sides of her black leather pants. “Didn’t I tell you he would make some cover story? C’mon, let’s meet hockey’s gift to womankind.”

Claire popped the last piece of donut into her mouth and wiped the powdered sugar off the front of her ribbed sweater. “Well, it’s a tough assignment, but somebody’s got to do it.”

Despite the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., a group of fans had already swarmed around Jason—no deterrent to Trish, who charged on through. “Jason, Trish Camperdown, features editor of Focus Magazine.”

“Ms. Camperdown, a pleasure.” Jason’s high-wattage smile appeared genuine. He rocked back on his heels.

Trish, normally the epitome of cool sophistication, actually giggled. He widened his smile. A full array of white teeth, large but not too large—perfect for nibbling on a girl’s earlobe—practically glistened against the gray of the Manhattan skyline.

Claire was standing back a few paces, but still felt the full wattage. “You still have all your teeth.” She blurted out the first thing that she thought of. Well, maybe not the first thing.

Jason looked over as if seeing Claire for the first time. He lifted his chin, surveying her closely. Not that she wasn’t used to that reaction.

Men often did a double take when they first saw Claire. She wasn’t beautiful, mind you; not like Trish, Claire thought. It was the fact that very few thirty-year-old women had a dramatic gray streak in their hair. She’d had it since she was eighteen, and for a time in her life had actually tried to dye it. But at the age of twenty-four or twenty-five, she had just given up, accepting it for what it was, a genetic quirk passed down by her father—a typically flamboyant quirk.

Big Jim Marsden had been a world-renowned, big-game photographer with a lust for life and a unique style all his own. If a giant rhino were charging at full speed, Big Jim could still hold a glass of bourbon in one hand and his trusty Leica camera in the other. All without flinching.

Jason Doyle didn’t seem to flinch at a little sight of gray either. “I have other things intact, also,” he replied.

He didn’t say it with a leer. That would be cheesy, and Jason Doyle was anything but cheesy. At six foot two, with four fingers of one hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans, and his thumb looped casually on the faded denim, the man looked as solid as Mount Rushmore and radiated as much sincerity as Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln combined. He was as true blue as they came, and Claire didn’t doubt that on Memorial Day he could be found in his little hometown—the guy had to come from someplace with a population of five thousand, who had wraparound porches on their white clapboard houses—placing tiny flags on the graves of the fallen war heroes.

No, when Jason Doyle said he had all his parts intact, Claire had no trouble getting the drift. It was where her imagination was drifting that had her more concerned.

“And you are?” He cocked one eyebrow and cradled his helmet against his jeans-clad hipbone.

“Claire—” An overeager fan pushed against Claire with bruising eagerness before she had a chance to finish. She bumped forward, her side landing against the hard plastic of Jason’s motorcycle helmet.

He shot out a large hand, cushioning the blow. He grabbed her elbow and stopped her before her nose bumped his chin.

And what a chin. A small cleft. Early morning stubble. A slight scar along the side. That, and the one near his eye, gave him a sense of character that kept his features from being merely perfect. Claire gulped and looked up into tiger’s-eye, flecked-brown eyes that spelled trouble with a capital T. “My mother warned me about guys like you,” she mumbled. Claire shook her head, trying hard not to feel the sheer strength of his grip through her bulky sweater.

“That’s the trouble with mothers.” Jason’s grin stretched wider. A devastating dimple marked one cheek. “They never look beyond the surface.” Another surge of fans squashed Claire more firmly into his side.

Talk about surface. As she slammed against his body, Claire felt the energy vibrating from Jason’s frame, his muscular legs straining against his worn jeans. And when she lifted her hand defensively, she felt his chest through his thin black T-shirt, his well-defined pectorals and pancake-flat stomach.

Claire shook her head. This embodiment of masculinity was meant for Trish. She should not be receiving sensory impressions with the magnitude of an air raid siren. She raised one eyebrow, arched her neck, and gave him the slow once-over. “And a very nice surface it is, too. But there won’t be much left of it if we don’t get you inside.”

She turned to look for Trish. Her friend’s sleek chignon had come loose in the hubbub, and Claire didn’t think her four-hundred-dollar Italian designer shoes could take much more of the stampede. And more fans were swarming their way. Quick action was needed. “Trish, why don’t you and Jason fight your way inside? Grab one of the security guards over there to help you. We paid them overtime. They may as well earn their money.”

Claire turned back to Jason. For a man about to be smothered by a band of adoring fans, he seemed remarkably calm. If anything, he was smiling more broadly than ever. “Something funny?” she asked.

“I don’t think you need a mother to protect you, Claire-with-no-last-name. I think you can take care of yourself just fine.”

“And something tells me you’re not exactly a pushover yourself. But listen, get Trish inside. I don’t think her Ferragamos can take much more of this.”

“What about my bike?” He nodded sideways.

“Keys.”

“Keys?”

Claire held out her hand. “I’ll take the bike around the back.”

Jason hesitated. “My mother warned me about women like you.” He pulled the keys out of his pocket. “I presume you can ride one?”

“Do bears pee in the woods?” Claire waggled her fingers for him to hand over the keys.

Jason placed them in her hands. They were warm from being next to his body. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“I have the responsibility for a forty-thousand-dollar custom-built machine?”

“More like sixty thousand. But that’s not the point. The real issue is that you now meet the first of my ten requirements for a perfect wife.”

It was Claire’s turn to look confused.

“Long ago, I decided that I would only marry a woman who knows how to ride a motorcycle,” he said.

“Well, that’s something I’m sure your adoring fans will be eager to know. But at the risk of a little too much adoration—” Claire looked over and placed Trish’s hand on Jason’s arm. “Trish. I think it’s time you take our crowd pleaser inside.”

Trish, her hairdo and her demeanor jostled by the crowd, looked only too relieved at the suggestion. Of course, a mussed coiffure on Trish simply gave her that air of just-out-of-bed chic. Her retro Persian lamb jacket hanging precariously off one shoulder and her skimpy little cashmere sweater doing the same, added to the waiflike look. “Don’t worry about your bike,” Trish said. She patted Jason’s arm as she directed him forward. “Claire is very good with mechanical things. After a party while we were in high school, she once figured out how to circumvent the security system in my parents’ house, so we could sneak in late without getting in trouble.”

Jason seemed more impressed by that news than by Trish’s soigné appearance. Over the crowd noise she heard, “I trust she hasn’t continued this life of crime.” He looked back in Claire’s direction.

“I’m only tempted toward the end of the month when the paycheck’s run out and the electricity bill is overdue,” Claire said loud enough for him to hear.

An eager fan thrust a copy of the morning’s paper and pen toward Jason to sign, and forced Claire to take a step back, giving her a better view of her gaminelike friend cozying up to hockey’s hunk. And then the first thought of the morning hit her again. Here in the flesh was the answer to Trish’s dreams. And while the thought should have sent her leaping with the joy and grace of a member of the Bolshoi’s chorus, it was actually a little depressing. Strange. And when faced with internal confusion, Claire reacted in her instinctively glib manner. “Speaking of A-1 marriage material. You fit our bill for a fiancé.”

Her voice penetrated the din of the crowd. And Jason, who had started to turn into the building with Trish leading the way, turned his head back at the sound of Claire’s voice.

She smiled. For once, the calm assurance that naturally embued his features, seemed to flicker.

“Don’t worry. It’s for Trish, not for me,” she called.




2


BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.

She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.

She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.

Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.

And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.

“Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.

Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.

“Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”

“Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.

“I’m impressed.”

Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.

“It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.

“Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”

“You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”

“Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”

Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.

“Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”

That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials. True, sports had never been her beat, and she was not a celebrity photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But the Claire Marsden photo credit carried a lot of weight in the publishing world. And Trish had assured her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.

So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.

“Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.

“I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.

Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”

Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”

“Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.

Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?

Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.

“You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.

“I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”

“What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon fully appreciates how lucky we are to have you on this job. Now why don’t you and Jason get to work while I talk to Vernon about what we’re planning next.” Trish shooed Claire and Jason along as if they were naughty puppies. There were times when well-manicured French tips definitely made a statement.

Claire turned to Jason. “Well, I guess we’ve got our marching orders. As you’ve already heard, I’m Claire Marsden, but I never got a chance to properly introduce myself.” She held out her hand.

Jason took it. “You’re freezing.” He placed both her bare hands in his and started to rub. His hands were large, his skin rough. Claire didn’t know about her hands, but her toes, which usually were frozen nubs despite two layers of woolen socks, were definitely getting hot. “You should wear gloves,” he said, and rubbed more briskly.

Claire swallowed. “Can’t. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t wear gloves with the camera. I’m just always cold.”

Jason lifted her hands in his and started to blow. “Better?”

Actually, she was feeling warm, quite warm. “I’m not sure better is the exact word I’d choose.”

Jason peered over their hands. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“How about maybe you stop?”

“How about maybe you blow on my hands and I’ll see how I feel?”

Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”

“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.

“So how do you want me?” he asked.

Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.

“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”

She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”

He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”

She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.

She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.

“Where do you want my hands?”

Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.

“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.

The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck

Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”

Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”

“Oh, I think I already have.”

SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.

Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.

“Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.

“Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.

“I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”

“Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.

“Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.

“Must be a testosterone thing.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Among other things.”

Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.

She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.

Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.

Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”

“That’s what all the women say.”

Claire didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”

Jason stopped making lazy eights with his stick. “You skate?”

“It’s been a while, but I think I’ll be good enough.” Claire looked around the rink. The last time she was on skates was when she was a teenager. She’d been in Holland with Big Jim. They’d just come back from Thailand, and as Big Jim exclaimed—Big Jim never just said anything; he always had to announce it to the world—“It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” In Big Jim’s mind that meant it was prime time for drinking and outdoor sports. The exact order of which tended to get a little fuzzy. “We’re here in Hans Brinker country, Claire-y,” she remembered him proclaiming. “We’ve got to skate on the canals.”

And skate they did, along with scores of Dutch parents and their laughing children. The hours on the frozen ice were followed by hours in a pub, with Big Jim putting away endless bottles of beer and regaling the clientele with a bottomless well of tales.

“You sure you’re up to it?” Jason’s voice penetrated her memories.

Claire looked over. “No problem. Look, here comes Elaine.” She nodded toward Trish’s assistant and slid across the rink. At the bench, she quickly laced up. Her feet felt uncomfortable as she wiggled her ankles. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Claire’s first steps on the ice were tentative. Then she relaxed her knees and quickly built up a rhythm of pushing off and gliding, an easy rocking from one skate to the other. She circled in a wide arc near the entrance to the rink, picked up speed and skated back to the center of the ice where Jason stood in the face-off circle.

Jason watched her as she approached. “Not bad.”

“I’m no Sonja Henje, let alone Wayne Gretzky, but it’ll do.” She picked up her camera in both hands. “Listen, ditch the jersey.”

Jason held the uniform top by the V-neck. “This?”

“That’s right.” Claire made a throwing motion with her hand.

“You’re the boss.” Jason slipped it over his head, leaving only the tight black T-shirt—and very little else—to the imagination.

An “ohmygod!” was audible from where Trish was standing by the boards. Then a clump. Claire looked over and saw her bending to retrieve her cell phone.

“Just think what could happen if I went further?” Jason dipped a hand under the bottom edge of his T-shirt and started to lift.

Claire caught a glimpse of his granite-smooth stomach muscles. She swallowed with difficulty. “No, I think you’ve gone far enough. I wouldn’t want Trish to end up face forward.”

“I’m fully qualified at CPR. Trish would be in good hands.”

And she was sure that Trish would be only too willing to take a dive to test out his claim. Which, come to think of it, was just what she had in mind originally. So why did she find herself wanting to see Jason practice his life-resuscitating skills on her, instead of her best friend? Down, girl, down, she admonished.

“Hold that thought. You can play doctor later,” she said. “Guys—” she motioned to the crew “—spread the lights up and down the rink, away from the boards. And, Jason, I want you to skate straight down the ice, not too fast. I’ll skate along with you. I want you to be handling the puck. Look ahead, like you’re planning a shot on goal.”

He took off slowly. “Like this?”

“You can go a little faster. Good. That’s it. Keep looking ahead. You can talk if you want.”

He handled the puck deftly. “So how come you didn’t ask me to take off my shirt, but you gave Clyde Allthorpe the go-ahead?”

“I didn’t have to ask.”

Jason stopped abruptly, the edges of his blades leaving a layer of white powder. “He was already au naturel?”

Claire kept her eye in the viewfinder. “Don’t stop. Keep going. And no, he was not au naturel, as you put it. He was swimming with his fiancée, Donna. And he was wearing swimming trunks—little tiny ones. Bright blue. Very cute.”

“I can imagine.” Jason didn’t sound all that pleased.

“No, don’t look at me. Straight ahead. That’s it. Great. Anyway, like I said, they were just getting out of the pool when I took the photo. They’d been swimming together, very happy. Over the top, actually. Their wedding was the next day. In fact, I was there to shoot their wedding.”

“You were on assignment?”

“Not exactly. I’d met Clyde when he was on an aid mission to Ethiopia. We hit it off, and he asked me if I’d shoot his wedding. It was all very hush-hush, no announcements. When the press got a whiff of it, Clyde and Donna decided the best thing would be to make arrangements to release photos to just one magazine. I talked it over with them, contacted Trish, and of course she jumped at the idea.” She stopped to reload, and Jason pulled up next to her.

“I bet she did.” Jason looked over at Trish, who was chatting up Vernon but still managed to keep a cell phone plastered to one ear. Her blond hair sparkled in the glare of the lights, giving her sophisticated beauty an ethereal glow. It was Tinker Bell with sex appeal.

“So what’s this about Trish needing a husband? I would think she’d be able to pick and choose. Wait a minute—she doesn’t need a husband because she is in the family way, so to speak? I’m not risking a paternity suit.”

“No, she is not in the family way, so to speak, and don’t look so panic-stricken. Besides, I didn’t say she needed a husband. I said she needed a fiancé.” Claire pursed her lips. “Listen, let’s skate down the middle of the ice toward the net at the other end. I want to get a shot of you head-on.” She started to skate backward, looking through the camera. “That’s it. Skate toward me. No, don’t look at me. Look over my shoulder, like you’re scoping out the defense. That’s it. That’s great.”

Jason timed his longer strides to her shorter ones. “So why does she need a fiancé?”

“She doesn’t need a fiancé exactly, more like a pretend fiancé. You see it’s like this—we have to go to this wedding of a former boyfriend of hers, and she doesn’t want him to know she’s unattached. It’s a pride thing.” She kept clicking the shutter. “That’s it. Breathe a little harder through your mouth.”

“Ah, the heavy-breathing thing again.” He puffed out dramatically. “And this ex-boyfriend is supposed to believe that Trish and I are passionately in love?”

“We’ll say you two met on this story and suddenly felt this overwhelming attraction. I mean, look at the two of you. Beauty and brawn.”

“I presume I’m the beauty.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Glamorous careers. Jet-setting lifestyles. It’s perfect.”

“So do you need a fiancé, too?”

Claire kept her head behind the camera. “Nope. No problems with prior attachments.”

“Any plans for the future?”

“No, I’m a free agent, and I’m happy just the way I am.”

“But you’ll be there? At the wedding, I mean?”

“Of course. Who do you think the wedding photographer is?”

“I should have known. Have camera will travel. You know, I gotta warn you.” He sped up his skating.

“Not too close. I can’t focus that close with this lens.” It wasn’t just the lens that was having trouble, as his body space impinged on hers.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?” Her back bumped into the crossbar of the net with a jolt. She would have dropped her camera if the strap hadn’t been around her neck.

“I tried to tell you.” Jason put his hand on her back and massaged the point where she had banged into the bar.

Claire tried not to think about the further pain he was causing.

“I’m beginning to think you need me more than you realize.” He slowly rubbed her shoulder blades.

Claire’s head shot up. “Just because I banged into the net doesn’t mean I need you. And you can stop rubbing now. I didn’t do that much damage.”

“Ah, you don’t know how much damage you’ve already done. In any case, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

“Something else?” She felt a strange letdown when Jason removed his hand.

“Yes, not only do you ride a motorcycle, you also skate backward. As it turns out, these are two of my requirements for a wife. And I must say, you pass with flying colors.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Jason grinned over his shoulder and started to glide away. “Oh, by the way. My keys?”

Claire swore under her breath. She fished into her jeans’ pocket and tossed them underhand. He caught them with an easy swipe and skated away, only to stop and return in a long slow arc.

“Yes?” She scowled as he slid in close. Again, too close.

He lifted one hand.

She watched his hand come close to her face. Then closer. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

With a gentle swipe of his index finger, Jason brushed the corner of her mouth. She flinched. Felt her lips tingle and her tongue turn dry. Gulping was impossible. Inhaling only slightly more doable. He had to know how awkward she was feeling.

Jason smiled broadly. He knew. “Powdered sugar.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “Powdered sugar?”

Jason brought his index finger to his mouth and slowly tasted it. “Yup, definitely powdered sugar. Must have been that donut you were eating when I first rolled up.” He looked down, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

The photographer in Claire leapt to take the pose.

The woman in her was paralyzed.

“And by the way, Claire Marsden,” Jason said lazily over his shoulder as he skated off for a second time. “That was no joke.”

Claire slowly brought her hand to her face and touched the corner of her open mouth. Her skin was hot, incredibly hot. She couldn’t possibly be blushing. She never blushed. But then she’d never been touched by a demon on skates, either.




3


CLAIRE PACED in front of Trish. “You let me go through that whole shoot with powdered sugar on my face!”

“You told him I needed a fiancé?” Trish responded. She darted her head around to see if they were being overheard. She had all the subtlety of a silent film star. The closest person was Elaine. She was over by the bench, talking with the straggly bearded techie. He somehow didn’t seem her type. “Jason probably thinks I’m pathetic.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t think you’re pathetic.” Claire remembered the appreciative look Jason had shown Trish as they got off the ice. Trish, who was looking so together, so sleek. While she, Claire, had a drippy nose and freezing, cramped toes. Sniffling and hobbling—she sounded like two of the Seven Dwarfs. And that’s when she remembered she still had on the skates.

She sat and began yanking them off. “I don’t know why you think anyone would think you’re pathetic. You weren’t the one tripping over her own two feet on the ice, all the while having this white glob on your face. Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire yanked off the second skate and looked around for her boots.

Trish crossed her arms. “Why so touchy about a little bit of sugar on your face? Frankly, I didn’t even notice.”

Claire found one work boot and pulled it on. She didn’t bother to lace it up. “That’s because your eyes were elsewhere.” Claire got on her hands and knees and started scouting under the bench for her other boot.

“He is rather attractive, isn’t he? One could do far worse in the fiancé category. In fact, it might be something worth contemplating seriously—in a very preliminary stage, of course.”

Claire heard the flirtatious lilt to Trish’s voice as she scrounged around on the rubber flooring for her lost boot. Her hand touched something sticky. She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

“So what did he say?”

“About what?” In the dank, dark recesses under the first row of permanent seating, Claire located her boot. It was pushed against the cement riser.

“You know, about pretending to be my fiancé at the wedding?” Trish must have bent down because her voice was louder.

Claire shimmied out backward, deciding the safest route out was the same way she’d come in. She dragged the boot behind her. “We never got that far. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Her derriere emerged from the deep abyss.

“Ask me what?”

Claire banged the back of her head on the bottom of a metal seat. She dropped her boot and it tumbled into the great netherworld of discarded chewing gum and Raisinets. No doubt Jason was looking down at her rear end as she hesitated on all fours. She could crawl back under. But then there was that mysterious sticky goo.

“You need a hand?” Jason’s voice was louder, nearer. Much nearer.

In the shadowy darkness under the seats, Claire sensed immediately that he had joined her. She felt the ripples of energy that emanated from his body. If only he’d thought to bring a flashlight. “No need to bother. I’m fine, thank you.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

“And the jock knows a literary line or two. I’m impressed. But truly, I wouldn’t advise scrounging around here unless you’ve had a recent tetanus shot. Besides, I’m just looking for my boot. I had it a minute ago and I seem to have lost it again.” Claire groped with her hand. She landed on something. It definitely wasn’t sticky. And it definitely wasn’t her boot.

It was large. It was strong. Sinews ridged the skin. Knuckles defined the contours. Fingers slightly curled; nails blunt cut. And there wasn’t the hint of a wedding ring. It was power at rest. But it hardly made Claire feel restful.

“Whoops, sorry about that.” Claire turned her head.

“Don’t be. It could happen to anyone.” In the darkness he moved his head toward hers. He shifted his hand.

His movement caused Claire to realize that her hand was still on his. “Oh, sorry.” She started to pull it away, but he switched grips, holding her fingers lightly.

The sudden dizziness enveloping her head had to be due to the awkward position she was in, Claire told herself. She cleared her throat, if not her brain functions. “I think my boot may be over by your hand.”

She leaned awkwardly in that direction. And felt her mouth brush his cheek.

Jason turned. His lips accidentally touched hers.

His lips pressed lightly. Maybe not an accident? It was brief. Lips ever so slightly parted. Warm breaths and tumbling heartbeats mixing.

And it was the most mind-numbing experience of Claire’s life. And it was happening under the seat of a hockey rink.

“You guys all right down there?”

Trish’s voice penetrated the haze of emotions that engulfed Claire. She felt Jason’s hand tighten briefly before he let go.

“No problem. We were just searching for Claire’s boot. I think I found it.” He searched with his other hand, passing it to Claire.

She was surprised she could still mumble thanks. Backing out on her hands and knees, she slowly rose.

“Find something interesting down there?” Trish rested one hand on her hip.

Claire shivered. “You don’t want to know.” She dropped her boot to the ground and worked it on with her toes. Jason got to his feet, as well. He raked his hand through his thick hair.

“Well, come now,” Trish announced. “Enough of this hide-and-seek. Vernon has agreed to leave you in our care, Jason, for the rest of today’s schedule.” She flounced her coat more squarely on her shoulders. “Why don’t you leave that motorbike of yours here while we take a taxi uptown to the hospital?” Trish waved in the general direction of Elaine, who looked as if she was starting to lose interest in her Mr. Right. “Elaine can drive it up and meet us there.”

“Claire maybe, Elaine never,” Jason said.

“I’m only too happy.” Claire walked over and grabbed her camera bag. Whatever distance she could put between herself and Jason would be a welcome blessing.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. We need you close by. We can always send a security guard. What’s more to the point—” Trish grabbed Jason’s arm “—when we’re all alone in the taxi, I want to know what you think about the fiancé thing.” Claire trailed behind as Trish kept her half nelson grip on Jason. “I realize it’s an imposition, and it was highly unprofessional of Claire to mention it to you during a session.”

“Maybe I will ride the bike after all,” Claire murmured.

“What’s that, Claire?” Trish stuck out her hand for a cab. The ones that sped by had their lights on, indicating they were occupied. “I should have had Elaine arrange for a car service to pick us up.” She dug in her Prada shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone. “I can still have her do it.”

Claire saw some commuters eyeing Jason. It was only a matter of time before they were surrounded. “Never mind about Elaine.” She spotted a taxi barreling down the other side of Sixth Avenue, stepped off the curb, and with her thumb and middle finger forming a circle, delivered a piercing whistle.

Like Odysseus responding to the sirens’s call, the cab made a suicidal move through the traffic and shrieked to a halt. All that was lacking was for it to be dashed against the rocks. Luckily, the curbs in Manhattan are low and rounded.

Trish snapped her cell phone shut. “I’d forgotten that little trick of yours.” She let Jason hold open the car door, then got into the back seat first.

Jason waited for Claire to get in next. “You realize you just demonstrated requirement number three.” He pantomimed her whistling.

Claire stared at the way his fingers touched his open mouth. And found her libido bouncing around with all the manic exuberance of a two-month-old Labrador retriever. “Boy, you’re easy to please. Half the women in the world must meet your requirements. And if you don’t get in the taxi soon, a few of them will be joining us any minute.”

They bundled in, Claire in the middle. Her camera bag rested on her lap. Jason didn’t seem much farther away. “You can’t move a little?” She looked down at his thigh pressed up against her leg.

Jason leaned over to speak to Trish, ignoring Claire’s comment. “So, tell me about the wedding.” His jacket sleeve put pressure on Claire’s shoulder.

Claire pursed her lips and studied the taxi driver’s license displayed on the dashboard.

“It’s really very simple. Claire, David and I all went to high school together in Leeds Springs,” Trish explained quickly.

“Leeds Springs?” Jason asked.

“A suburban town north of New York City.”

“Think country clubs and golf courses,” Claire said. She focused on the driver’s name, trying to decide which eastern European country he had come from. One with an overabundance of “k’s” it seemed.

Jason turned to Claire. “You lived in suburbia?”

She shrugged. “Only a year and a half. I survived. So did it.”

“Yes, well, all three of us were inseparable, mainly because we all worked on the school newspaper. Claire was the photographer, David covered sports, and I, well, not to be immodest, but I was the editor-in-chief.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Jason said. Claire decided to kick him for that smug little comment.

“Anyway, to make a long story short, David was my first true love, something that’s very special to a woman,” Trish went on.

Claire eyed Jason. “Don’t even go there,” she warned sotto voce. He placed his hand on his chest. Who me? he seemed to indicate. She kicked him again.

Jason winced. “Has anyone ever told you that you have violent instincts?”

She stared wide-eyed. Only a newborn calf could have looked more innocent. “Sorry, my foot slipped.”

“Twice?”

“Repetitive stress syndrome?”

“And even though we all went our separate ways, we stayed in touch.” Trish cupped her chin wistfully. “Call me unrealistic, but somehow I thought one day he’d come back into my life. Only I never envisioned we’d meet again at a wedding—his wedding, to someone else. To an orthodontist no less.” Trish took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and wrestled them onto her face. “An orthodontist,” she harrumphed.

“I’m sure she has very nice teeth,” Claire said.

“Don’t try to be nice, Claire. It doesn’t suit you.” Trish fiddled with the bow of her glasses, designer ones, naturally. “Anyway, even though David’s moved to Chicago—he’s a district attorney—” she turned to Jason “—they’ve decided to get married back at his parents’ place in Westchester, a nice Tudor place right by the golf course. I always did think it would make the perfect place for a wedding.”

Trish paused, as if visualizing the outdoor seating arrangement of her dreams—lilacs and lilies of the valley roped in garlands along white satin-covered folding chairs, a veritable aromatherapy of connubial bliss. “Well, when the invitation came, I accepted as a matter of course, and replied I would be bringing a guest. The thing of it is, to make this really work—to attend from a real position of strength—what I need is not just a guest, but a fiancé. That way I truly look like…” For once in her life, Trish actually needed to pause.

“Like you’re sleeping with someone?” Claire offered.

“That you have someone who is special, a lover,” Jason corrected.

Trish turned and pulled off her glasses. “Claire, you’re so predictable. But, Jason, you’re really quite sensitive, aren’t you?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Sensitive is not the adjective I would have chosen.”

“But then words are not your line of work, are they?” Jason shifted his weight and put his arm over the back of the seat. His hand casually rested on Claire’s shoulder. She hunched forward and hugged her bag.

“And what makes it even more incredible, Jason, is you’re clearly amazingly handsome and famous,” Trish said.

Jason nudged Claire. “See, someone recognizes my better qualities.” She hunched farther forward.

“But I’m not sure people are going to believe we’re an item.” From the emotional high of a second ago, Trish dipped to the depths of the Marianas Trench. “I mean the wedding’s this Saturday. And we’ve only just met. Besides, it’s not as if we have anything in common. I mean, I wouldn’t know a hockey bat from a baseball bat.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s a stick, Trish, a hockey stick.” She would have said something further along those lines, but she saw that her friend truly looked despondent, only reinforcing Claire’s long-standing belief that it never paid to fall in love. “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about the sports stuff. Didn’t you ever hear of the theory that opposites attract? You can just say you met over this story, which is perfectly true. And there was this instantaneous spark. This spontaneous combustion.”

Trish sniffed. “Spontaneous combustion?”

“This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”

“Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”

Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.

“Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “And seeing as we could say it was this sudden thing, we could also say afterward that it broke up just as quickly—one of those sputtering flame things. So, will you do it?” She turned and rested a hand on Jason’s sleeve.

Jason looked at Claire’s lips.

“Jason?” Trish asked.

“Hmm?”

“Will you do it? Will you be my fiancé?”

He stared at Claire’s mouth as he spoke. “There’s still six weeks to the start of the season. And when you put it that way, how can I refuse.”

THREE HOURS LATER, ensconced in the children’s ward of an Upper East Side hospital and research institute, Claire had just about run out of film.

That wasn’t the only thing to run out of steam. After going through several tapes and lobbing out questions that seemed to touch on everything from his first-grade teacher—Mrs. Greenberg, she wore a hairnet and orthopedic shoes—to the latest rumors about his hot-and-heavy affair with a Swedish cover girl—“We’re just good friends,” Claire heard him say over the whir of her camera—Trish packed up her recorder, her cell phone and her handheld organizer, and had Elaine arrange for a car to take her back to the office.

Someone else had yet to wilt, though. Jason was enthusiastically chatting away and signing autographs in the children’s clinic. Despite the ever-present barrage of tubes and drips, the mood was pure upbeat, with Jason trading high-fives with most of the kids.

Claire circled a hospital bed as Jason joked with one boy about the cap he was wearing. “Hey,” he called over to Claire, “don’t take his picture unless he promises to get rid of that Rangers cap. It’s Blades or nothing around here.” Jason dug into a bag and pulled out a cap. “Now that’s more like it.”

The smiling boy, his head billiard-ball smooth, laughed as he doffed the Blades souvenir. “Hey, Jason, you fall for my trick every time. I must have four Blades caps from you already.” The youngster adjusted the bill just right.

Jason held up a warning finger. “And that’s going to be the last. At least for today.” He pulled down the bill as Claire snapped another picture. “I’m all out of caps. Did everybody get one, Larry?” He looked to the doctor who was accompanying them.

“I think you’ve hit everyone, at least once, Jason.” As the rest of the medical team, Larry—Dr. Lawrence Shepherd, head of pediatric oncology—wore bright colors instead of the usual white uniform. He had a silly-looking frog hanging off his stethoscope. It seemed to suit the middle-aged physician with the gimlet smile. “We’ll see you back here in two weeks anyway, right?”

Jason nodded. “Got enough for the scrapbook, Claire?” He got up off the bed, looking bone-weary but deep-down satisfied.

“You’re a fraud, Jason Doyle,” Claire said as she packed up. “Vernon churns out the usual publicity drivel about the swinging star-athlete making the requisite charity appearances, and here it actually looks like you enjoy it. Next you’ll tell me you’ve been coming here off-the-record for five years.”

“I’d say it’s more like fifteen,” Larry said as he walked them to the elevators. He pushed up his horn-rimmed glasses and looked at Jason.

“It’s the food. I just can’t get enough of it.”

“Just bring the Stanley Cup to New York this coming season,” Larry said. “I’ve got a twenty-dollar bet riding on it with the president of the hospital board.”

“And here I thought I was appreciated for just being me.” They walked companionably to the elevators, with Jason inquiring about how Larry’s children had liked sleep-away camp. Without too much prompting, Larry opened his wallet.

“That’s some catch.” Claire leaned over to take a look at the snapshot. A boy of around ten with board shorts and a baseball cap turned backward was proudly holding a fish. A fishing pole stood at attention in the other hand.

“Largemouth bass. Must have been two pounds.” Larry grinned before carefully packing up his wallet.

“Paging Dr. Shepherd. Dr. Lawrence Shepherd.”

Larry looked up. “Never a dull moment.” He held open the elevator, letting Claire and Jason enter without him. “Remember what I said.” He looked at Jason.

“I know, the twenty dollars.”

“That, and my usual invitation. It’s always good any time you want.”

The doors closed. Jason leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. She let the day’s first moment of silence embrace them before finally asking, “How come you know Larry? You’re not from the city, right?”

“Nope, I’m one of St. Johnsbury, Vermont’s finest. Larry was my college roommate’s doctor. I never forgot what he did for Danny. Larry has a gift.”

“I wouldn’t say you’re completely untalented. How many people can play hockey the way you do?”

Jason opened his eyes. “Did a goal ever save anyone’s life?” He paused. “But enough humility on my part. Instead, let’s turn to a far more intriguing subject—Claire Marsden.” Whatever weariness or bitterness he may have felt was quickly masked.

“Trust me, it’s just your run-of-the-mill, globe-trotting photojournalist stuff. Not a very interesting topic.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start with this.” Jason playfully tugged Claire’s streak of gray hair. “I’ve been dying to know. It’s real, yeah?”

“It’s real, yeah. Do you know many thirty-year-old women who purposely put gray in their hair?”

Jason toyed with the dramatic lock. “I like it. It’s different. It’s you.”

“Actually, it’s more my father. He had the same streak. Turned gray around seventeen, eighteen, just like me. And that’s what I inherited—besides seven hundred and forty-five dollars, a Leica in impeccable working order, and a good set of camera lenses.”

“I’d say from your talent, you inherited a whole lot more.” He toyed with her hair a bit longer. “And what did you inherit from your mother?”

Claire rescued her hair from his fingering and tucked it behind her ear. “If you met my mother, you wouldn’t even bother to ask the question. Let’s just say we’re the yin and yang of mother-daughter relationships.” The elevator doors opened at the hospital lobby. “Our eighteen months of living together were as baffling to her as they were to me. To her great consternation, I just never learned essential life lessons, like how to coordinate my handbag with my shoes.”

Jason studied her work boots and canvas camera bag that doubled as a catch-all purse. “I noticed. It’s one of your more charming qualities. I hadn’t thought of it before, but I may add that to my requirements for a future wife. Let’s see, where does that put you? Four in total?”

Claire swung open the wide glass door and walked outside. She waited under the canopy on the sidewalk. She looked around as he joined her. “I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish with all this future wife rigmarole, but it’s starting to get a little stale.”

Jason zipped up his jacket. “Rigmarole. I like that. Whoever said words weren’t your strength?”

Claire spun around. The man could try the patience of Mother Teresa. “All right, I’m just going to ignore whatever’s going on.”

“But why?”

“Well, for one thing, do I need to remind you that you’re supposed to have fallen madly in love with Trish and are engaged to her?”

“That’s pretend.”

“Nevertheless.” Claire pulled out the schedule from her back pocket and unfolded it. “Let’s see. Tomorrow appears to be a full day. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning we hit your gym.” She folded the paper back up. “A little workout’s in store.”

Jason wetted his lips, letting the tip of his tongue rest in the corner of his mouth. Never had a gesture of thoughtfulness been so X-rated.

“Hey, Jason, I don’t know which gets more stares—you, or that damn bike of yours.” The hospital doorman tossed him the keys. Jason’s motorcycle had mysteriously rematerialized in front of the hospital.

“Thanks, Nick,” he replied, then turned to Claire. “Can I give you a lift? I need both hands to steer, you know.”

“Even without your hands, you’re not to be trusted. I think I’ll take my chances on the street.” She took a few backward steps.

“Tomorrow.” Jason nodded. “I’ll be ready, Claire Marsden. Oh, which reminds me. Before, when you were explaining why you were going to ignore me, you said ‘for one thing.’ What I want to know is, what’s the other reason?”




4


CLAIRE WAS READY.

But Trish wasn’t. Neither was Elaine. Maybe they couldn’t deal with putting on eyeliner and lipstick before sunrise two days in a row.

A certain member of the male population didn’t seem to have those worries. Jason was there waiting, tapping his foot as he leaned against the check-in area in the Plaza’s lobby. A giant arrangement of Asiatic lilies and birds-of-paradise, which was perched on the marble counter, quivered in time to his strict tattoo.

And talk about the opposite of all dressed up with nowhere to go. Under his leather bomber jacket, he wore a ratty sweatshirt and sweatpants. On his feet, an old pair of sneakers held together with duct tape. There wasn’t a logo in sight.

It was a sponsor’s nightmare. And from the looks of the female clerks on duty, every woman’s fantasy.

How could a man who’d just rolled out of bed and into yesterday’s laundry possibly generate that much raw sex appeal? Claire wondered. Thoughts of his just rolling out of bed lingered in her imagination. She set her jaw and marched forward. Simply do your job, she told herself. No weak knees today.

Jason spotted her instantly and pushed himself away from the desk with his elbows. Claire stopped two feet in front of him and performed an obvious once-over. “Don’t overdress on my account,” she said in greeting him.

Jason leaned over and picked up a canvas backpack. “I figured I’d change into my formal wear for when we go house hunting.”

“Always important to impress the co-op boards.” After Jason’s morning workout, Claire was supposed to capture his search for the perfect abode in his new hometown. She couldn’t wait to see what marvel of mirrored glass and steel he would choose for himself. Her image of bachelor jocks living alone fit with some slick, Donald Trump skyscraper on the Upper East Side.

“Vernon not joining us?” She let the doorman hail a taxi out front.

“No, he has to hold some Romanian gymnast’s hand today. I’ve been upstaged by an eighty-pound tumbler.” He didn’t look stricken. “What about Trish? Still too early for her nail polish to dry?”

“Don’t be so hard on Trish.” Claire defended her friend, even though there might be a grain of truth in Jason’s crack. “She may get a little carried away at times—”

“Trust me. No man would ever complain about a woman getting carried away. At anytime.”

Claire frowned and was about to snap back a retort when she caught herself. Jason had this unerring way of getting her goat. She had always considered herself fairly immune to “male speech.” After years of living in close quarters with war correspondents and soldiers, she had developed a tough skin when it came to many things—constant innuendos being only one of them.

But conversations with Jason seemed to leave her as vulnerable as a schoolmarm. Why did he always seem to know which button to push? She must be getting soft in her old age. These days, after all, she was in the habit of sleeping on clean sheets—Pratese, Trish had informed her—and having a cleaning lady to do her wash—never had her T-shirts been so cuddly soft and April-fresh smelling.

That was it! It was all that fabric softener. It was affecting her brain as well as her nasal passages.

Satisfied that she had a petrochemical explanation for her softening response system, Claire squared her shoulders with a renewed sense of self-confidence and replied with her customary glibness. “I must remember that insight the next time the Secretary General of the United Nations asks me for my opinion on global warming. In the meantime, I’d like to discuss some of Patti’s other admirable traits.”

“Patti?” A taxi pulled up, and Jason gave the address.

“Sorry, Trish. Trish used to be known as Patti back in high school, but she decided to change it.”

“Before or after sleeping with the sports editor?”

Claire turned to him in the back seat of the taxi. “As surprising as this may be to you, the change was not part of some post-coital response. ‘Oh, now that I am a woman, I think I’ll change my name to Trish.’”

Jason leaned back in his seat and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “That is hard to believe.”

Claire stared back, taking in his look of mock amazement. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He tilted his head. “Very much so. Aren’t you?”

Claire smiled thoughtfully. “I guess I am, too.” And she was. Despite her earlier misgivings, she found herself amused, maybe relaxed. No, not relaxed. “Anyway, to make a long explanation short—Trish used to be known as Patti because her name is really Patricia. But then she thought that sounded too Gidget-ish.”

He leaned forward. “I realize that’s supposed to make it all crystal-clear, but who or what is a Gidget?”

“Never mind. That’s not important. What is important is that Trish took me under her wing when I first showed up in Leeds Springs. I had never lived in America, never heard of the suburban high school scene. I was so out, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as an ‘in’ crowd. And Trish immediately made me part of the newspaper crowd, made me feel accepted. And her generosity didn’t end there. Later, when I’d be between assignments and back in the States, she always let me crash at her place, even kept a trunk with all my stuff. I’m there now as a matter of fact.”

“She seems like quite a friend.”

“The best. It’s on account of her that I’m shooting this job.” She turned to face Jason. The taxi turned sharply at the corner.

“I’d say it was probably talent that got you the job. It’s probably just as much to Trish’s benefit, if not more, that you’re shooting the pictures.” He looked deadly serious.

Claire scoffed. “Come off it. We all know that in this world, talent only gets you so far. Well, maybe not in your world, but in mine, anyway. It’s who you know that counts. If I can help out Trish, great. But bottom line, she’s the one who hired me.”

“Were you always this cynical?”

“You can call it cynical if you want. I prefer to think of it as realistic. In any case, it’s important to me that Trish doesn’t get hurt with this whole wedding business. Very important.” Claire studied her hands. She realized she’d been folding and unfolding them on top of her camera case.

“Claire?” he asked softly. “Claire?” he asked again. She looked up. “I understand your loyalty, and I applaud it. Heck, you’re talking to someone who plays on a team as a profession. But I want you to get one thing straight.” He paused.

Relieved to see that the taxi had stopped, Claire leaned against the door, ready to get out.

Jason put a hand on her arm. His voice was low, barely above a whisper. “I will make sure that everything goes okay for Trish at the wedding. But get one thing clear, crystal-clear.” He tightened his grip on her arm. Claire looked at the hand on her jacket sleeve, then at his face. There wasn’t a grin in sight. And just when she would have preferred him to tease her in some good-natured, tasteless way, he said, in a deadly serious tone, “I’m not doing this because it’s important to Trish. I’m doing it because it’s important to you.” And then he let go of her arm.

CLAIRE SWUNG open the door, climbed out, and adjusted the awkward load of her camera bag. She gulped for air, any air, to counter the sudden attack of hyperventilation that had seized her. And she was having a hard time blaming it on laundry products.

Jason Doyle is an assignment, she told herself firmly. And he’s the means to helping out a good friend. Period. What she needed now in her life was the safety of simplicity. No complications. No risks. Just uninterrupted nights of sleep, regular meals and a paycheck every two weeks.

What she didn’t need was Jason Doyle messing with her brain, and messing with the rest of her insides. And right now she was definitely having a mind-body experience, one that wasn’t leading to a greater state of bliss. No amount of self-help gurus, green tea or lavender bath salts was going to provide an antidote, either. What she needed had to be far more potent—one-hundred-percent caffeine.

She turned back and watched as Jason paid the driver. He slung his backpack over his shoulder. His jacket rose to expose his hipbones, jutting against the low-slung, soft fabric of his sweatpants. She gulped and turned away quickly. “I desperately need coffee,” she gasped. She was going to need it intravenously if his pants slipped any lower.

She looked around for a coffee shop, taking in her surroundings for the first time. “What are we doing in the Village?” So intent had she been during the conversation in the cab that she hadn’t paid any attention to where they were going. “I thought we were going to the gym.” She’d naturally assumed they were using a training facility at the Garden. Or if not, some posh health club, with state-of-the-art machines and freshly squeezed carrot and guava juice in a carefully constructed snack bar.

She turned a three-sixty on her heels. When she thought of the Village, she thought of jazz clubs, wacky Halloween parades, and shops selling rhinestone handcuffs and crotchless underpants. She didn’t think of strapping specimens of male beauty—at least not in the context of professional sports. But here they were, on the edge of the New York University campus, not exactly a powerhouse in hockey.

“I would have thought you usually worked out with the team,” she said again.

“That’s true. They have special equipment tailored to building up quads and hamstrings for lateral movement.”

Claire nodded, not having the faintest idea what he was talking about.

“But I also like to scout out universities. It’s something I got into the habit of doing when I was with my last team. Their gyms may not have the shiniest equipment, but the gym rats are really eager. Nothing pushes you harder than a bunch of cocky twenty-year-olds watching your every move.”

Why anyone would voluntarily want to compete against guys who could party all night, live on bags of Oreos, and still come out and run a sub-five-minute mile, was beyond her comprehension. Unless you still felt you could do the same thing. She studied Jason. “I suppose you think you can drink shots of tequila all night and still outrun, out jump and out lift any of them.”

“I can’t?” Jason looked incredulous.

If he didn’t look so boyishly handsome in his sloppy clothes and unkempt hair—no, there was nothing boyish about Jason Doyle—Claire would have clocked him right there and then. Talk about delusional. The man thought he was immortal, or at least immortally young. Chalk up another reason for her to steer clear. In her experience, people with an unnatural sense of their own invincibility tended to do reckless things that got themselves and others into trouble. Big trouble.

“Well, some of us are mature enough to realize that we need to take care of our bodies, to nourish them with essential vitamins. That being the case, I’m going over there to get coffee.” She pointed to an espresso bar on the corner. “Can I get you something?”

“No, I never drink coffee. Do you know what coffee does to your system?”

“It’s the one thing that my body responds to in a predictable way.” She rummaged in a side pocket of her bag for some money.

“Maybe it’s time to generate some unpredictable responses?”

“And you’re just the guy to do it, right?” Claire shook her head and managed to pull a five-dollar bill free of some tissues and gum wrappers. “Talk about being predictable.”

“Honey, nothing’s predictable when it comes to me.”




5


JASON HAD BEEN RIGHT about the college crowd.

They showed him respect, but absolutely no mercy. He reciprocated in kind.

Even at this early hour, a few dedicated members of the varsity teams—men and women—were working out. They were heavily into weight training, high rep as well as bulk. Bench pressing. Cleans. Curls. Squats. Also interval training. Running steps. Hoisting medicine balls. Contorting their bodies into Kama Sutra-type positions on giant rubber fitness balls. Sweating it out on rowing machines and Nautilus equipment.

After an hour and a half, most of the students had gone—some to classes or simply too exhausted to continue. Not Jason.

Claire wiped her brow. She had long since abandoned her anorak, and stripped down to jeans and a thin gray T-shirt with a fraying hem. To say the air in the weight room was close was a gross understatement. If someone were to bring in a truckload of snow cones, they’d melt faster than you could say “Good Humor Man,” and there’d be a tidal wave of gargantuan proportions.

Trying to ignore the pool of sweat that collected in the vee front of her bra, Claire propped her foot up on a bench. She rested her elbow on her knee and focused the camera on Jason’s biceps as he did curls with some humongous-looking weights. With each breath, he bent his elbows, bringing the weights to his chest, only to slowly and deliberately repeat the motion over and over. The sinews in his arms stretched taut. The muscles bunched and relaxed. Over and over. Bunched and relaxed.

She shifted the lens, focusing on his face. The intensity of his concentration as he worked, eyes shut, was hypnotic. She stared, and for one of the few times in her life, forgot to take a photo.

Jason Doyle might be a top athlete due to his extraordinary talent, but it was talent honed with an unbelievable amount of determination. Here was a man who knew the value of hard work, of pushing himself past the point of pain to what could only be more pain—all because he knew what it took to win. And that, Claire realized, was the mark of a champion. Not just the desire and the ability to make the winning shot or to score the crucial goal, but the willingness to expend the hours of solitary effort required to push the envelope of performance.

Here was athleticism in its most primitive state. Its most brutal. Its most exhausting. And at the same time, its most appealing. Its sexiest. Claire wet her lips, salty with perspiration, and took a picture.

Jason lowered the weights and stopped. He inhaled loudly, his chest expanding. The faded letters that spelled Grantham University had become difficult to read due to the drenching sweat that covered his T-shirt. Slowly, he circled his neck, loosening his shoulders. And opened his eyes.

Claire pretended to look through the camera.

“You want a go at it?” Jason motioned to the weight rack. “Your biceps look pretty fit. You must work out, too.”

“My exercise comes strictly from lugging around a ton of equipment.” Claire clicked a few more shots.

“Make a video and you could probably market it as a new exercise routine.”

“Yeah, right. I can see it now. ‘Lugging and Hauling Your Way to Fitness. Only requires twenty thousand dollars worth of camera equipment. But for a limited offer, available today only, we’ll throw in a potato peeler and a julienne slicer.’”

“What, no serrated knife?” He smiled as he breathed heavily through his mouth, then peeled off his wet shirt and tossed it across the handle of a nearby exercise bike. “Boy, it’s hot in here. I must have sweated off ten pounds.”

Jason Doyle clothed was dangerous. Half naked, he was positively illegal. Claire didn’t even bother to pretend to be taking pictures.

He noticed. And smiled wearily. “There’s more where this comes from.”

“I’m sure there is. But can we get back to business?” Claire hunched her shoulders and raised her camera.

Jason held up his hand, blocking the lens. “No more pictures.”

She peered over the top. “No more pictures?”

“No.” His voice was quiet but firm.

And it didn’t seem in jest at all. Claire slowly lowered the camera. “Well, in that case, I might as well pack up and wait while you hit the showers.” She chattered nervously as she straightened up.

He moved his hand to her wrist. “Why don’t you not.” He rubbed his thumb back and forth across the inside of her wrist.

Claire closed her eyes, telling herself she wasn’t feeling the shooting spark of pleasure that penetrated every nerve ending of her body. I will not respond, she told herself. Then she felt him take her other wrist and double the torture.

I will not respond, she told herself again.

His fingers slid slowly up her forearms, coming to rest at her elbows. He massaged the sensitive skin, scraping his nails lightly along the crease. Claire nearly buckled at the knees. So much for not responding.

She opened her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I want you. And because you want me.”

“Maybe.” Maybe? Who was she kidding? Even in deep REM sleep her body would be pulsating with desire.

But her sense of vulnerability was just as strong as her passion, if not stronger. “This is ridiculous. You can’t want somebody you’ve only met,” she protested as much to herself as to Jason. Isn’t that what Trish had argued in the cab the other day? She reached out to steady herself on the bar resting on a stand behind her.

“We may have only come face-to-face yesterday, but I’ve known about you longer.” Jason stood.

His naked torso was close, impossible for Claire to ignore. The damp swirls of hair on his chest rose and fell with each slow breath. She gripped the bar harder. “You mean, you knew about me from the spread on Clyde Allthorpe?”

“When I spoke to Trish a while back, she told me that you were the one who shot those pictures. So naturally I was curious. But I was even more intrigued when she assured me that you were the same C. Marsden whose name used to appear under photos from all sorts of godforsaken places.”

Claire looked sideways to avoid his stare. “I wouldn’t have thought world news was your thing, let alone noticing the photo credits.”





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