Risky Business (31 page)

“Not so fast. Tonight's Thursday, right?” Allison said.

“Yeah . . .”

“I have an idea that just might work. I think it's time for a little road trip.”

The neon lights of Pinky Rae's Gentleman's Club gleamed against the cloudy sky. At least it wasn't raining, though Allison didn't trust Mother Nature not to punctuate her trip to Buffalo with a surprise downpour at any moment.

“This is a strip club. What are we doing here?” Theo asked, trailing behind her as she stormed through the door.

“You'll see. Just don't let them get the envelope.”

The manila envelope she'd brought along contained nothing but Cloud Nine's gift certificate contribution to the silent auction, but if she pulled this off, it'd be the greatest bluff in history.

The club's interior smelled as though someone had splashed the place in grenadine and disinfectant. There were two strippers on the stage, writhing together while wearing nothing but teensy purple G-strings and body glitter for what looked like a packed audience.

They were stopped near the entrance by a woman holding a tray, and dressed in pink sequin pasties and jean shorts so high-cut they looked like granny panties made out of denim. “Can I help you?”

Behind her stood one of the widest, tallest, most neckless men she'd ever seen. He might have even growled at them.

Allison smiled. “We're looking for a group of men.”

“Well, we've got lots of them in here. Take your pick,” she said with an edge of sarcasm.

“I should have been more specific. We're looking for a group of corrupt politicians and lobbyists. Middle-aged, a few of them are balding.”

The waitress flapped her hand and offered a two-pack-a-day wheeze of a laugh. “Like I said, have at 'em.”

Allison and Theo had to walk the crowd twice before they found the table of Lowell's friends in the dark, crowded room. Three of them were busy getting writhed on by lap dancers. Allison stood at the front of their table, her hands on her hips with the envelope in plain view.

“Okay, ladies. You've worked these particular letches long enough. I think you've earned whatever it is a lap dance is going for these days.”

All three dancers looked at her like she'd lost her mind, but scooted out of her way.

“Mrs. Whitley?” It was Leonard Karevko, just the lobbyist she was there to see. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello, gentleman. Enjoying poker night?”

“You shouldn't be here,” City Councilman Rob Duncan said.

“Oh, I don't want to be here, believe me, but you all owe me a favor and I'm here to collect.”

“We owe you? For what?”

“For lying to my face every week for years about the true nature of your Thursday night poker games with Lowell, and for helping him spend all those thousands of dollars he extorted.” She fanned herself with the envelope. “I'd hate for someone to call the district attorney and offer proof in the form of receipts and photographs and a few other . . . surprises implicating each of you. Especially you, Leonard.”

Leonard let out a loud, fake belly laugh. “If that existed, it would have come out at trial. Lowell was our buddy, but I have no doubt he would've thrown us under the bus to save his own hide if he could have. Nice try, Mrs. Whitley.”

In other words, they were guilty, but didn't think there was any proof of it.

“Maybe he was prepared to throw you all under the bus. Maybe this,” she waved the envelope, “didn't come out at trial because when Lowell asked me to bring it to his lawyer, I told him I couldn't find anything resembling the file he described. What was he going to do, break out of jail to prove me wrong? Maybe I'm smarter than Lowell ever gave me credit for.”

She was, just not in a blackmailing sense—at least, right up until tonight. She was getting wiser about the power of extortion by the second.

Leonard leapt from his chair, lunging for the envelope, but Theo grabbed his wrist, wrenched it in a painful-looking twist, and sat Leonard back down. “You don't want to be getting any closer to her than this,” Theo growled.

Allison's toes curled in her boots. Damn, her fiancé was a stud. But, then, she already knew that.

“What are you, her bodyguard?” Leonard said.

“Among other things.”

“All right, Mrs. Whitley. You have our attention. What favor do you want us to do for you?”

“Tomorrow, there's scheduled to be a men's league ice hockey exhibition game between combat-wounded soldiers in Destiny Falls and Russia, sponsored by Wounded Veterans International. It's been getting national and international attention, and has even been mentioned by the president, so I'm sure you've heard of it.”

Whether they really had or not, she'd never know, but a couple of them nodded.

She smiled brightly at Leonard. “There was a problem with their game's facilities, and they need to borrow the Sabres' ice. Leonard, you're going to get it for them.”

“That's impossible. First Niagara Center is booked almost every night. Tomorrow night there's a Sabres game. What am I supposed to do, reschedule it?”

She hadn't thought about that angle. Good thing she could think on her feet.

She gave a flippant shrug of one shoulder. “I was thinking more like a doubleheader. The arena will already have the fans and the workers. Think of the international exposure, the support to the country's veterans it would demonstrate. The president might even tune in. The arena's corporate goons who pay you to lobby on their behalf would look like heroes.”

Leonard rubbed his chin, eying the envelope. He shifted his gaze to the other men at the table. One of them, an older man with silver hair and sharp, intelligent eyes whom Allison didn't recognize, nodded. Allison's chest tightened with hope. Was this really going to work?

“Mrs. Whitley, you drive a hard bargain. Let me make some calls.”

***

The following night, the Destiny Falls Bomb Squad played the biggest game of their season in front of record crowds and a swarm of international media, many of which were spinning the story as the feel-good story of the year.

The Russian team reminded Allison a lot of the men on Bomb Squad. She counted four prosthetic arms and even more scarred, but proud, faces of men who had overcome tremendous obstacles and come back fighting strong. They were warriors, every one of them—and terrific hockey players. Bomb Squad ended up losing three to two, despite Theo's on-the-buzzer shot on goal during the third period, but the crowd didn't even seem to register the loss, they were so busy cheering for their local heroes.

Allison knew this wasn't what Brandon, Liam, Will, Theo, Duke, and the rest of the team imagined when they'd set out to win the bid for the exhibition game, but judging by the smiles and shimmering eyes as the crowd's standing ovation went on and on, delaying the start of the Sabres' game, they were having the night of their lives. Even Liam seemed to be enjoying himself in the spotlight.

Katie wasn't a fan of the final game buzzer, as usual, but she kept a stiff upper lip as she watched her and Allison's favorite player skate a victory lap right alongside the Russian team, because, really, there were no losers in the arena tonight. When Theo got to where Allison and Katie were sitting in Leonard Karevko's choice seats in the front row with Harper, Olivia, Marlena, and Presley, he pivoted to a stop and pulled a silly face at Katie.

It wasn't exactly the smolder that Brandon usually gave Harper on those occasions when he'd stopped to see her after he'd scored the game winning goal, but Allison thought the sight of Theo trying to make her daughter laugh was much, much sexier.

When he smiled at her, Allison flashed him a thumbs-up. She was filled with so much pride and love for him that it made her chest ache with happiness. He set his glove on the Plexiglasss, fingers splayed.

“Get out here,” he said, nodding toward the guarded entrance to the team bench.

A thrill coursed through her. Though she wasn't sure she'd be allowed to join him, the thought of throwing her arms around him had her on her feet, passing Katie off to Marlena. The guard let her pass after a word from Theo and before she could do more than squeal, Theo had swung her into his arms and taken her out on the ice.

“Time for a lap around the rink,” he said, pushing away from the edge of the ice.

She wrapped her arms around him and laughed, loving the cheers of the crowd and the other players as much as the sensation of flying as he glided with her in his arms.

This was what “cloud nine” felt like, soaring along in the arms of the man she loved, surrounded by the community that had taken her in and made her one of their own in her darkest days. It was the perfect end to the perfect day in a wondrous life with Theo that had barely just begun. And that, she knew, was the real miracle on ice.

 

Welcome to Destiny Falls, New York, home of Bomb Squad—an ice hockey team full of rugged military heroes. The team's battling a losing streak, but the season's biggest game changer is one player's second chance with the one who got away . . .

Yoga instructor Marlena Brodie is always up for a challenge, and her new job of snapping Bomb Squad out of their rut is definitely that, even though it means being in close contact with Liam McAllister, her high school crush gone bad. She can feel the damage pouring off of him—but also a wild and sexy strength that calls to her.

The Army turned Liam McAllister into a man, but as a combat medic, he saw far too much to ever be whole again. He's not interested in the civilian world beyond his job as a carpenter, but he never stopped wondering what might have been with Marlena—and it isn't long before she's crashed through his carefully constructed walls. He longs for a new beginning with her, but to be the man she deserves, he'll have to step out of his defensive zone and score the most important play of his life. . . .

Don't miss the next Bomb Squad novel

UNDEFEATED

Available soon from InterMix

Marlena offered the last of her students a serene smile as they bowed at the door of her yoga studio. “Namaste. Have a peaceful evening.”

She resisted glancing at the clock, feigning patience until the students had cleared the sidewalk before locking the door. An anxious exhale stuttered out of her when she glanced at the clock. Only twenty minutes until she taught Liam McAllister a thing or two about what his thousand dollars would and wouldn't buy.

After blowing out the candles around the room, she grabbed her wallet, then slipped out the back of the studio so as to avoid any students lingering in the parking lot. Not that grabbing a late dinner was anything to be ashamed of, but stress eating at Pancho Pete's didn't exactly fall in line with the
body as a temple
philosophy she exalted in class. Yes, her body was a temple, but right now that temple needed three rolled tacos with guacamole and habanero sauce.

She stole along the well-lit alley behind the strip mall that housed her studio on the northern end, through air that grew increasingly thick and pungent from the stale fryer oil wafting through Pancho Pete's rear screen door at the opposite end of the line of storefronts.

The narrow restaurant was crowded, as usual, but Orlando was manning the register and he did a great job keeping the line moving. She reached the front in a few scant minutes and slid a five-dollar-bill across the counter. “Hey, Orlando. This place is jumping tonight.”

“Guapita, you have no idea. It's all about the nachos these days. Is that what you want?”

“Not tonight. Three rolled tacos with guacamole. Extra habanero sauce.” Orlando opened his mouth, but Marlena held up a hand and grinned at him. “I know guacamole is extra. You ask me every time.”

They shared a smile while Orlando entered her order and made change. “That just means you eat here too much. When are you going to let me take you out for a real Mexican feast?”

Orlando had to be at least thirty years her senior, but she indulged him with a wink. “One of these nights.”

And, hey, maybe eventually her harmless flirting would earn her some guacamole at no extra charge. A girl could dream.

When her order arrived in a cardboard boat, she stood at the end of the counter, drizzled the entire container of habanero sauce over the tacos, and dug in. It didn't take long for her nose and eyes to start running. The roof of her mouth and tongue radiated fire, tears streamed over her cheeks, and her throat tingled, leaving no room in her head for stressful thoughts.

“Damn, that's good,” she mumbled with a sniff.

A jingle of bells announced Pancho Pete's front door opening. Marlena glanced up through watery eyes as she shoved the last of her second rolled taco into her mouth, then did a double take at the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Krandall from the evening class that'd let out a few minutes ago. What were they doing here? Fast food was a terrible post-yoga meal.

With a curse under her breath, Marlena grabbed her food and ducked behind the counter because, on a lot of levels, it wouldn't be good business for the students of a holistic healing and yoga center to see their teacher macking on rolled tacos right after class.

The door jingled again. Marlena poked her head up. This time, Olivia walked through it. Olivia and Marlena had been best friends since the sixth grade, and she'd been in yoga class tonight as was her usual routine, but Marlena had hustled her out of the studio with a little white lie about having errands to run before the stores closed. Better that than admit she had a late-night massage appointment with Olivia's twin brother.

Crouching, Marlena shuffled behind the counter toward the rear exit. “Just ignore me, Orlando,” she muttered as she passed.

Probably, this kind of thing happened more often than she thought because he didn't question her, but merely chuckled and continued ringing up an order. Back in the alley, she ate her last taco, rolling her eyes with bliss as the final waves of spice tortured her taste buds and tingled the roof of her mouth.

She came down from the spicy high with a crash as she noticed a red splotch of sauce on her tank top, right on her chest. Shoot. Some sex goddess she'd be if Liam showed up to find her with food stains on her shelf. The reminder that, in a matter of minutes, he'd be in her studio—and they'd be alone together for the first time since they were teenagers—brought back her anxiety with the force of a tsunami. So much for the calming benefits of stress eating.

She hastened her steps back to the studio, praying that her stash of spare clothes was still in the supply closet. Once there, she kicked off her sandals, stripped her stained top over her head, then flung her closet open. A clean, pink tank top hung next to her spare coat. With a laugh of triumph she pulled it on. It was a shade too tight and low cut, but that worked perfectly for tonight's plan.

After a quick run of a toothbrush over her teeth, she moved through the studio, ready to set the stage for her revenge. Rather than relighting the sandalwood candles, she opted for ylang ylang-scented candles and incense—the most powerful aphrodisiac in her aromatherapy arsenal. The heady scent spilled into the air among coils of smoke and heat and silence.

Unrequited desire seemed a fitting punishment for a high school crush who'd spent his teenage years expending a lot of energy making sure she knew he thought she was ugly—only to then treat her like she invisible in all the years since graduation. Neither of his inexcusable attitudes explained why he'd dropped a grand for the series of four massages she'd offered up in a charity silent auction, or why, despite it taking him two months to collect on the massages, he'd all but commanded her to fit him into her schedule after her last yoga class of the night. Neither explained why, on the phone, his voice had been husky and deep, as though he was picturing her stroking out a happy ending for him at the end of their appointment.

As if a professional holistic healer such as herself would ever stoop to that, no matter how much money he'd paid for the privilege.

Against her will, a tendril of desire uncoiled inside her at the thought of him prone on her massage table, her hands sliding along the thick, long erection she'd always assumed he'd been blessed with, one that matched proportionally with the rest of his body's height and breadth and bulk. She shook the image away. Not cool. He was supposed to be the one left wanting after tonight.

At five minutes until his appointment time, she unlocked the door, then took a seat on the stability ball she used as a desk chair. Fifteen minutes later, she was still waiting. So much for him being in a rush to see her. She caught her reflect in the glass of her storefront. Despite the dim studio lighting, she still looked good—her hair perfect and flowing, her breasts luscious and well-defined in the skintight pink tank that topped her equally skintight yoga pants. If she couldn't make him want her tonight, with her looking like this and the sensual mood of the studio, then he never would.

Maybe he really does just want a massage
.

For a thousand dollars? Yeah, right.

When the studio door finally opened several minutes later, she delayed the inevitable by listening to the sounds that framed his entrance—the static whir of air and cars, and the scrape of the door's weathering strip along the carpet. Then, bracing for impact, she turned her gaze from the far wall to look at him. The angles of dim lamplight, candles, and shadows carved a dark intensity onto his face and into the cut of his jaw. Only the gold cross he wore gleamed where it hung around his neck.

Every molecule in her being tensed as though hunkering in self-defense. Even her heart thudded in tight, quick bursts. Thousands of times she'd seen Liam casually, from a distance, over the past two decades. Thousands of times and it never got easier. She flexed her toes out, then curled them into the carpet.

Rolling his weight from one foot to the other in an agitated sway, he hooked his thumb toward the parking lot. “I saw my sister's car. Was she checking up on me again?”

No polite greeting, which wasn't a big deal because she wasn't all that crazy about small talk, herself, but the suspicion in his tone tipped her out of balance as much as the sight of him had.

She held his unyielding gaze. “You're worried I told Olivia about your appointment tonight? I didn't. She takes my evening yoga class. You ought to try it. It'd be a great complement to the massages. And would it be such a big deal if Olivia had been checking up on you? She wants to be a part of your life, if you'd let her.”

The hint of smirk he leveled at her tugged at his cheeks and tightened the edge of his eyes. He stepped more fully into the studio and stood before her desk, a soldier at ease, legs hip-width apart, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight.

Marlena might be eternally doomed to a jarring visceral reaction whenever she saw him, but she hadn't been intimidated by his rakish charm in high school, and she wasn't intimidated by the cold hostility that had overtaken him in the army. Rather, Marlena had always felt that she and Liam were two incompatible predators, studying each other on opposite sides of glass in a zoo.

A wolf and a lioness.

“Why do you think I'm here?” he asked.

Another question. Another test. Pressing her palms to the desk, she stood and searched the darkness in his gaze, looking for the answer. The ylang ylang scent hovered between them, heavy with suggestion. “You're here because you paid a pretty penny to be. Why do you think you're here?”

The smirk erupted into a laugh, quiet, his eyes downturned. When he looked up again, it was through thick lashes. For the first time in a long time, she saw a hint of the charmer he used to be. “Why do I
think
I'm here? You trying to trip me up?”

“It wasn't a trick question. You can only discover your true reason for being here after you leave.”

He tapped the bald head of the laughing Buddha figurine on her desk. “You talk like a new age guru, which makes sense because that's what you are, right?”

“More or less.” She wasn't a guru yet—not for many more years of study and practice—and nothing about what she taught or studied was new age, but ancient.

Another layer of artifice vanished from his face. She had no delusions that she was seeing the real Liam yet, but that would come. His true self would appear when she touched him, of that she was certain.

He set two tight fists on her desk and sank into his arms, the cross necklace swaying like a pendulum from his neck. “I'm here for my first massage.”

The skull tattoo on his right forearm looked up at her from black eye sockets. A tingle of desire skittered over her skin at the sight. She wasn't usually turned on by his kind of hostile, in-your-face masculinity. But the tattoo turned her on anyway. The chiseled line of his jaw and his terse words turned her on. The flex of muscles beneath the thin, tight white tank top he wore turned her on even as he scared her with his potential for power. That was a funny thing the universe had done, making the line between lust and fear so fragile.

She pushed her tongue around her suddenly dry mouth, fighting for inner balance. It was useless. But if he wanted to keep pretending he was there for the massage, then she was professional enough to play along.

She walked around the desk and met him head-to-head. “I'm ready for you.”

That was a lie. She wasn't ready for him. But she was ready for the challenge of him. She was always ready to take on challenges.

“Then let's get to it.”

After locking the front door, she led the way behind the folding screen that separated the front office area from the expansive yoga space, then across the carpet and past the ylang ylang candle to the massage table she'd set up in the back corner of the room.

As he followed, his energy balled up behind her like a storm cloud, as intense and suspicious as his questions had been. The agitation was still present, but also need. Want. Ego. Impatience. She turned at the foot of the massage table to find him standing too close, reminding her that though they might be different animals in a zoo, he'd paid one thousand dollars to make the glass between them disappear.

“What did you mean, that I wouldn't know why I'm here until I leave?” he said.

Her focus slipped from his face to his arm as he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. The skull tattoo undulated as though he was flexing and relaxing his fist. Lust and self-protectiveness roiled inside her. How was it possible that the same volatile, masculine power that she feared could be so provocative?

“Because you can't know what the universe is trying to teach you until it teaches you. You can't predict what you'll learn,” she said.

With a slow blink, he edged nearer. His right hand slipped from his pocket to prop on the table close to her hip. He had enough inches of height over her and enough muscled bulk to his body to give the impression of looming, of crowding and intimidation.

It struck her, then, the position she'd put herself in. She was alone after dark in a locked office with a man made up of two hundred pounds of muscle wrapped in a white wife beater tank top and low-slung jeans. More than once, Olivia had confessed through tears that he'd emerged from his time as a combat medic a changed man—broken beyond repair.
Mean,
she'd said.

Marlena agreed about the change in him, but not the broken part. Nobody this strong, with waves of energy howling through them like Liam had, could be called broken.

She drew a sharp breath and tried to remember that this was her best friend's twin, not some stranger. He knew where she lived and where her hangouts were; if he'd wanted to hurt her, he wouldn't have bothered making an appointment. Now that he was so close, she could smell soap on him and see the damp tips of his hair. He was just human, a regular guy—not a monster like Olivia and so many people in town had made him out to be.