Nothing but Trouble (Chinooks #5) (15 page)

She stood, and he looked up her bare legs. “Does it usually make you lose your mind?”

No, she made him lose his mind. “It makes me forgetful, and I forgot that I can’t have sex with you.” But he wouldn’t forget again. He had blue balls and she was about to walk out the door. Just like last time. She was cute and sexy and he liked her, but there were a lot of cute, sexy women that he liked. Cute, sexy women who wouldn’t let things like morals and ethics stand in the way of a hot, raunchy roll in the sheets.

If not for a leg cramp, Chelsea would have had sex with Mark. Right there on top of the granite island. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind about that. He hadn’t been the only one to lose his mind that afternoon in his kitchen. And just like there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she would have done him, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that it would have been good.

Real good.

Scream at the top of her lungs, rock the gates of heaven, and beg him not to stop, good.

She didn’t know what it was about him, other than his good looks and hot body. Other than the heat of his brown eyes and the touch of his skilled hands and mouth, that made her forget everything. Forget her ethics and plans and who she was and what she wanted to do with her life.

She’d worked for fantastic-looking men before. Men who’d made it known in subtle and not-so-subtle ways that they wanted to have sex with her. She’d never been tempted. To them she’d just been a woman they found attractive. A body. It hadn’t been personal.

Mark was different. There was just something in the way he looked at her sometimes. Not as if he
wanted
her, but as if he
needed
her. It surrounded him like some sort of hot magnetic force that drew her in and drained her brain. It made her all raw nerve endings and warm urges. It made her throw caution and good judgment to the wind, along with her clothes, and want to press her naked body against his. To touch him all over and feel him touch her.

I’ve only ever been good at two things. Hockey and sex
, he’d said.
My hockey career is over. So that only leaves me with one thing I’m good at
.

She’d never seen him play hockey, but she imagined his approach to both was the same. She imagined he used the same thoughtful precision to score goals as he did to score with women. He stayed with it and took his time. Didn’t rush and did whatever it took to get the job done.

In the cooler section of Whole Foods, she’d wondered what the man did to make women scream; now she knew. And now that she knew, she worried that getting through the next few days, heck, the next three months, was going to be torture.

But she needn’t have worried. The next day at work, Mark returned to his previous pattern of behavior and ignored her. He ignored her the day after that too. In fact, over the course of the next few weeks, the only real time he spoke to her was when she took him to appointments or chauffeured him around to look at real estate. He looked at so many properties, she didn’t think he’d ever find anything. The property was either too big or too small. If he liked the floor plan, he didn’t like the area or vice versa. Either it was too secluded or the houses were too close. He was like the Goldilocks of house hunters and couldn’t find something that was just right.

Often his friends picked him up, or he spent time in the weight room upstairs or on the golf course just outside the backyard. On the rare occasions he did speak to her, he was so extremely polite, she wanted to hit him on the arm and tell him to knock it off. To send her on a stupid errand or insult her clothes and hair.

Instead, he asked about safe stuff, like her acting. She told him about the background work she’d done for HBO. She’d been hired for a commercial shoot in a local coffee shop, and she’d tried out for the part of Elaine Harper in a local production of
Arsenic and Old Lace
. She didn’t get it, which was a little disappointing but okay. The play wasn’t set to open until September. She wasn’t sure how much longer she would be in Seattle after September.

Perversely, the less attention he paid her, the more attention she paid to him. The more he ignored her, the more things she noticed about him. Like the way he tended to draw out the O’s when he talked. Or how when he was irritated, his “yeah” got chopped to a “yeh.” She noticed how his voice sounded through the glass as she stood in the office and watched him coach Derek on the driveway. His coaching style was equal parts encouragement and exasperation, and he was in turn amused and annoyed by Derek’s utter lack of coordination.

She noticed the way he smelled. Like some lethally good combination of soap and deodorant and skin. And she noticed the way he walked. He no longer wore his splint, and he’d switched his cane to his right hand. His strides seemed easier. Less thought out. Smoother. She noticed he seemed more comfortable and that pain rarely bracketed his mouth. And she noticed that he fell asleep less during the day but that he often looked tired by the time she left at five.

All that she noticed about him, but he didn’t seem to notice much about her. Sometimes she wore clothes so bright, she thought for sure she’d get a reaction. Nothing. It was like that afternoon in his kitchen had never happened. As if he’d never touched her and kissed her and made her want more.

Yet…yet there were a few times when she thought she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes. That hot need burning just beneath the surface. That barely controlled desire, but then he’d turn away and leave her wondering if she was crazy.

Over the next month, she came to view him as something decadent. Something she craved like brownie fudge ice cream. Something bad for her, but the more she told herself she couldn’t have it, the more she seemed to crave just one bite. And just like brownie fudge ice cream, she knew that should she ever indulge, one bite would not be enough. One bite would lead to two. Two to three. Three to four, until she’d feasted on the whole thing and there was nothing left but regret and a bad stomachache.

She also knew just where she’d start feasting on Mark. Right where the collar of his T-shirts hit the base of his neck. She’d kiss the hollow of his throat just below the slight bump of his Adam’s apple.

Working for him was as hard as it was easy. She didn’t have to make sure he got invited to the right parties or arrange events as she had for her past employers. She didn’t have to call up designers and make sure he had the right clothes. He was very low-maintenance, but his very laid-back attitude was what often made him difficult.

Three days before the Stanley Cup party, he suddenly remembered that he had to buy a shirt. Chelsea drove him to Hugo Boss and sat in a chair next to the trifold mirror as he tried on several dress shirts. Since the accident, he discovered that he’d lost an inch around the neck, chest, and waist. Which meant he had to buy a new suit and have it altered by the party. He picked out a two-button wool jacket and pants of classic charcoal. To go with it, he tried two different shirts. First a charcoal and black, then a stark white.

The salesman brought him a selection of ties, and he picked out a simple blue-and-green stripe with the stark white. Chelsea watched him through the mirror as he flipped up the collar and wrapped the tie around his neck. Even though he’d regained a lot of the dexterity in his fingers, his stiff middle finger kept getting in the way.

“Shit,” he swore after the third attempt.

Chelsea stood and moved in front of him. “Let me,” she said, and pushed his hands aside. The backs of her knuckles brushed against the thick broadcloth of his shirt as she adjusted the length.

“You’ve done this before?”

She nodded and concentrated on the silk fabric in her hands instead of on his mouth just inches from her forehead. “A million times.” She crossed the wide end over the narrow and wrapped it twice. “Half Windsor or full?”

He shook his head. “Whatever.”

“I like the half. It’s less bulky.” He smelled wonderful, and she wondered what he would do if she tilted her face up just a bit. Her fingers brushed his chest and her thumb touched his throat and she thought about rising onto her toes and kissing his warm skin. If she undid all those buttons and slid her hands all over his bare chest…Of course she would never do it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said just above a whisper. “Or I swear I’ll push you against the wall and have sex with you right here.”

She raised her gaze up his throat and mouth to the stormy anger in his eyes. “What?”

He knocked her hands away. “Forget it.” He grabbed one end of the tie and pulled it from his neck.

He was clearly mad about something she’d done. Wisely, she moved away and waited for him at the counter, where he dropped more than three thousand dollars on a suit, two dress shirts, and a tie.

On the ride to Mark’s house, an awkward silence filled the car. At least it was awkward for Chelsea, and she left work early. When Bo got home that night, the sisters looked in Chelsea’s closet for dresses to wear to the Stanley Cup party. Chelsea didn’t have three thousand dollars to blow on clothes, but she did own a small but impressive selection of designers.

After thirty minutes of indecision, Bo reached for the black Donna Karan stretch taffeta. It had a bow sash and a deep V in the back, and Chelsea had worn it to an Oscar party in Holmby Hills three years ago. Of course it fit Bo perfectly, and she looked wonderful in it.

Chelsea didn’t have to think about which dress she’d wear. Last year she’d found a Herve Leger beige sheath at a consignment store. It was made of rayon and spandex, with gold jeweled straps. She’d never had the chance to wear it, until now.

The day of the cup party, the twins pampered themselves. Chelsea had the hot reddish-pink low-lights taken out and her hair dyed a nice summer blond. She had her hair straightened while Bo got hers curled. Together they got their fingers and toes done at a local day spa. Chelsea had learned a long time ago that one of the best and most inexpensive places to get her makeup professionally applied was at a makeup counter. The twins drove to the mall in Bellevue, and Chelsea got her face done at MAC while Bo chose Bobbi Brown.

The last time Chelsea had had so much fun with Bo had been the night of their senior prom. The dance had ended in disaster with their dates deciding that they wanted to switch twins, but she and Bo had had a great time until that point.

“Your boobs look huge in that dress,” Bo said as she slid her feet into a pair of red pumps and sat on the bed.

“My boobs are huge. So are yours.” Chelsea turned sideways and looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The dress wasn’t her usual style. It hugged her like a second skin, and the color was very sedate.

“Can you sit down in that thing?”

“Of course.” She slipped her feet into a pair of jeweled sandals with five-inch heels and sat next to Bo to buckle the straps around her ankles. That morning she’d called a plastic surgeon and made an appointment to talk to him. She’d been waiting for the right moment to tell Bo. They’d been having such a good time, she figured now was as good a time as any. “I’m going to use the money I get from the Chinook organization to have breast reduction surgery,” she blurted.

“Shut up.”

She looked up, then returned her attention to her shoes. “I’m serious.”

“Why would you do something so horrible to your body?”

“It’s not like I’m cutting them off. Haven’t you ever wanted smaller breasts?”

Bo shook her head. “Not enough to mutilate myself.”

“It’s not mutilation.”

Bo stood. “Why do you always have to be different?”

“I’m not doing it to be different. I want to do it so that I’m not fifty and slumped over like Mom.” She finished with her shoes and rose to her feet. “I’m having a consultation with a local plastic surgeon week after next. I want you to go with me.”

“I won’t support you this time.” Bo shook her head. “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

Chelsea grabbed her beaded clutch off the dresser. The one person in the world who should understand and support her decision, didn’t. The only other person in the world who’d seemed to understand, currently wasn’t talking to her at all.

The Sycamore Room inside the Four Seasons glowed with golden candlelight. Gold tablecloths and fine white china adorned round tables with centerpieces made of exotic flowers. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sparkled, and scattered lights shone like diamonds on Elliot Bay.

On a raised dais at the front of the room sat the holy grail of hockey: the Stanley Cup. Light bounced off the polished silver like it was a disco ball, and Chelsea had to admit, even from her seat at the back of the room, it was an impressive sight. Almost as impressive as Jules’s indigo-and-white-striped suit and fuchsia shirt.

As dessert was served, Coach Nystrom stood at a podium next to the trophy and talked about the hockey season. The highs and the lows. He talked about the death of the team owner, Virgil Duffy, and the accident that almost took Mark’s life.

“We were devastated. Not only on a professional level, but more importantly on a personal level. Mark Bressler played for this organization for eight years, led it for the past six. He’s one of hockey’s all-time great players, a leader, and a fine man. He’s family, and when we learned of the accident, everything just stopped. None of us knew if a member of our family would live or die. But as worried as we were about Mark, we couldn’t stop. We had the rest of the team to think about too. We had to think up something fast if we were going to have a shot at saving the season. We had to find someone who could step in and fill Mark’s considerable shoes. A man who would respect our players and our program. We found that man in Ty Savage.”

As the coach talked about Ty, Chelsea leaned to her left and whispered in Jules’s ear, “Where’s Mr. Bressler?” She and Bo had arrived as the first course was being served and there were more than a hundred people in the room, most of them a lot taller than the sisters.

“Owner’s table in the front.”

She knew from the few conversations she’d had with Jules, not only was he the owner’s assistant, he was her good friend. “Why aren’t you at the owner’s table?”

“I was invited but I wanted to sit with you and Bo.”

She leaned forward a little and looked at her sister seated on Jules’s left. Bo’s mouth was drawn tight. Maybe tonight hadn’t been a good time to tell her about the doctor’s consultation.

Applause broke out and drew Chelsea’s attention once more toward the front. Two men stood and approached the podium. Both had dark hair that brushed the collars of their dark suits. Both had wide shoulders. One was Mark Bressler. Chelsea didn’t need to see his face to know it was him.

Pride lifted her chest and tumbled in her stomach. He was strong and had survived a lot. She watched him move easily toward the dais. If she hadn’t known about the accident, she wouldn’t have been able to tell tonight. His steps were smooth, his gait sure—until he came to the steps leading up to the podium. He paused for several seconds before he grasped the railing and took the few stairs up. He looked healthy and handsome in his white shirt, striped tie, and wool suit. She was proud of him, yes. But there was something else too, something hot and achy and totally off limits, tumbling and swelling in her heart.

“Good evening,” Mark said, his voice deep and confident. “My grandmother always told me that if you take care of family, your family will take care of you. This past eight months, my Chinooks’ family has certainly taken good care of me. For that, I am truly grateful.”

The light above his head shone in his hair and bounced off his white, white shirt, and the feeling in Chelsea’s chest grew a bit more. “It has been both an honor and a privilege to play for the Chinooks these past eight years. Everyone in this room knows it takes more than one person to win games. It takes more than great players. It takes good coaching and dedicated management willing to listen and invest in the team. So I want to say thanks to the late Mr. Duffy, the coaches, the trainers, and the rest of the staff. Most of all, thanks to the girls in the travel office who always made sure I had a room away from the elevator.”

“We love you, Mark,” a woman yelled.

“Thanks, Jenny.” He chuckled. “I need to thank everyone who contacted me after the accident to wish me well. I want to say thanks to every guy I’ve ever played with. Most of you are in this room. I especially want to thank the guy I never played with, Ty Savage. For the past six years, Savage and I met regularly in the face-off circle to exchange pleasantries. Most of the time, he questioned my paternity while I questioned his sexual orientation. But one thing I never questioned was his skill. On the ice and as a leader. I know that everyone else in the Chinooks’ organization has thanked him for the superb job he did leading the team to victory under difficult circumstances.” Mark turned and looked at the man standing slightly behind him. “I would like to add my thanks.”

Ty stepped forward and the two shook hands. Chelsea remembered the day Mark had called Ty an asshole, and she wondered if he’d changed his mind. The two men said a few words to each other, then Ty leaned toward the mic. “Stepping into the Chinook captaincy was both easy and one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. Easy because Mark was a great captain who led by example. Difficult because he was a hard act to follow. As everyone knows, no one on this team deserves their name on that cup more than Mark.”

The room exploded in applause, and after several more speeches were given, people moved forward toward the Stanley Cup to get a better look at hockey’s top prize. Chelsea stayed in the back with Bo and Jules, but her gaze remained on the man who stood next to the shiny trophy. Even from the length of the room, he appeared relaxed. At ease and in his element. Chelsea had never known Mark Bressler, the hockey player. The elite athlete. Other than what she’d read on the Internet and gleaned from fan letters, she didn’t know that side of him or that part of his life. She wondered if she would have liked him. Because despite his rude and obnoxious personality, she liked him more than she should.

“Can’t you relax for one night?” Jules asked Bo, pulling Chelsea’s attention from the front of the room. “Have some wine. Chill. It’s a goddamn party.”

Bo stood and grabbed her clutch off the table. “I’ll be right back. Some of us have to work. I have to talk to the photographers from the
Times
,” she said, and walked out the open door behind them.

Jules picked up his wineglass and drained it. “Come on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Chelsea stood and grabbed her small purse. “Did something happen between you and Bo?”

He adjusted his paisley tie and took her elbow. “Your sister is moody as hell.”

Bo? Bo was a lot of things. Uptight and driven topping the list, but she wasn’t moody. “Did something happen?” Chelsea felt a bit like a salmon swimming upstream as the two of them made their way to one of the tables in the front.

“I told her she looked pretty, and instead of just saying thank you like any normal woman would do, she got all mad. She said I was only saying that because she was wearing a designer dress.”

She smiled. “Ah.” The crowd inside the Sycamore Room began to filter out toward the ballroom where the serious party was about to begin. “It makes perfect sense, now. In the fifth grade, Bo had a little crush on Eddy Richfield. So she punched him on the arm. He ran away crying, and the romance never blossomed.”

Jules looked down into her face. “Is there a point to that story?”

Chelsea nodded and pushed her smooth hair behind one ear. “Bo doesn’t react like other women.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And she always takes a swipe at guys she really likes.”

“Why?” he asked as they approached the owner of the Chinooks, Faith Duffy. The woman was even more beautiful up close.

“To see if you’ll run away crying.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s Bo.” Faith turned toward Chelsea Ross, and Jules introduced the two.

Faith smiled and held out her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Chelsea. Jules has told me good things about you.”

She shook the team owner’s hand, and a few feet away, Mark’s deep laughter reached across the distance and spread little tingles down her spine. Her back was to him, but she didn’t need to see him to know he stood within a group of people admiring the cup a few feet away.

“I was in the Key the night the Chinooks won,” she told Faith. “Bo and I both thought that kiss at the end was one of the most romantic things we’ve ever seen.”

“Romantic and shocking.” Faith smiled and looked around. “Where is Bo?”

“You know her.” Jules let out an irritated breath. “Always working an angle.” A frown pulled at his brows and he reached for Faith’s left hand. “Is that an engagement ring?”

“Ty asked me to marry him.”

“And you didn’t tell him hell no?”

Ty moved behind Faith and slid his hand around her waist. “Why would she do that?”

She leaned back against Ty and smiled. “I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, Jules.”

Ty laughed, and Jules’s frown turned stormy. “Funny.”

“I’m not joking. I want you to be in the wedding.”

While the three of them talked wedding plans, Chelsea excused herself. Most of the room had cleared out, and she walked the few feet toward the dais. She stopped next to Mark and felt the hot swell in her chest again. She would love to tell herself that it was only pride that made her ache, but while she was a good actress, she was a very bad liar. Especially to herself.

He didn’t say anything as he stared at the symbol of his accomplishment. His life goal. His dream. He looked at it like he was mesmerized. Hypnotized by its shininess. Or maybe he was just ignoring her again.

“It’s bigger than I thought,” she said. “Probably pretty heavy, too.” She could only imagine the emotion he must be feeling. She knew that if she ever won an Oscar or even an Emmy, she’d be freaked out. Probably become catatonic. “I don’t know a lot about hockey, but seeing all those names inscribed on the cup kind of inspires awe. Like the first time I stood at the Lincoln Memorial. It’s so grand and filled with history.” He still didn’t speak. “Don’t you think?”

Without looking at her, he said, “Your dress is too tight. That’s what I think.”

“What?” She turned to look at him. “That’s crazy. It covers me almost to my knees.”

“It’s the same color as your skin.”

“I thought you’d like it because it’s all one sedate color.”

Mark glanced down into her upturned face. Into her big blue eyes and pink lips. He did like it. A lot. He’d like it a lot more if they were alone. “You look naked.”
And beautiful.

“I don’t look naked.”

“Hey, Short Boss.”

Mark groaned inwardly.

“Hi Sam,” she said.

“You look hot.”

Mark had an irrational urge to kill Sam. Or at the very least, punch him in the head. It had been a long time since Mark had punched anyone in the head. It might feel good.

Chelsea smiled up at the defenseman. “Thanks. So do you.”

“What do you say to you and me hitting the other room? I’ll buy you a drink.”

Mark folded his arms across his chest. “It’s an open bar, numb nuts.”

Sam laughed and put his hand on Chelsea’s elbow. “Free booze. Even better.”

“Didn’t you bring a date?” he asked the man he used to consider a friend.

“No. I stagged it. Some of the other guys too.”

Great. A bunch of horny hockey players and Chelsea in a naked dress. He watched them walk away as bitter acid ate at his stomach. The feeling was rare, almost foreign to him, but he recognized it for what it was. He was jealous as hell and he didn’t like it.

“Mini Pit dyed her hair.”

He looked across his shoulder at goalie Marty Darche. “That’s not Mini Pit. That’s her twin sister, Chelsea.”

“She looks naked in that dress.”

“Yeh.” His gaze slid down her spine to her tight little butt. He didn’t need Marty to elaborate to know in which direction the man’s thoughts were running.

The goalie elaborated anyway. “Do you think her tits are real?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.

They were, and Mark felt another urge to punch yet another teammate in the head. “Big breasts like that cause shoulder and back pain,” he heard himself say. He sounded like such a girl, his neck caught fire.

The goalie laughed like Mark was joking. “I wonder if I got her drunk if she’d play knocker hockey?”

“Don’t be a dick, Marty.”

“What?” Marty looked at Mark as if he’d suddenly grown a horn out of the middle of his forehead. Like he didn’t recognize his former captain.

In the past, comments like that wouldn’t have bothered him. Hell, he might have made one a time or two. Or three. But there were rules. You didn’t talk that way about a teammate’s wife or girlfriend. “Nothing. Forget it.” Mark shook his head and walked away. Chelsea was not his wife or girlfriend. She was his assistant, and he’d been trying like hell to treat her like she worked for the Chinooks’ organization and wasn’t some living, breathing sexual fantasy they’d implanted in his house just to drive him batshit insane. He’d been trying to get the picture of her half naked sitting on his kitchen island out of his head. Mostly he’d been failing, and her touching his chest the other day, and looking up at him like she wanted to have sex right there at Hugo Boss, hadn’t helped. Not one bit.

He moved from the Sycamore Room into the crowded foyer. Music flowed through the doors of the ballroom as the band hit their first set.

“Hey, Bressler.”

Mark turned to his right and came face to face with one of the greatest enforcers to ever play in the NHL. “Rob Sutter. How in the hell are you?” He stuck out his hand.

“It’s been a long time.” Rob had been the Chinooks’ enforcer until a groupie shot him and ended his career in 2004. “Mark, this is my wife, Kate.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Kate.” Mark shook the hand of a pretty redhead with big brown eyes. He dropped his arm to his side. “What are you up to these days?”

“We have a sporting goods store and a grocery market in a little town in Idaho,” Rob answered. “My oldest daughter lives with us now, and we have two little boys.”