See Jane Score (24 page)

“Hey, Sharky,” everyone called out to her. Everyone but Luc.

The pull of his brow and the cool appraisal of his blue eyes told her that Luc wasn't at all happy to see her. Her battered heart took another bruising.

She took a seat between Daniel and Fish and was careful not to make significant eye contact with Luc. She was afraid that every hockey player at the table would see that she was in love with their goalie. That he would see it too, and become even more distant, which probably wasn't possible.

She couldn't quite force herself to ignore him completely, though, and her gaze was drawn to his across the table. He sat back in his chair, his hand at his side, relaxed, at ease. Except for his intense gaze, which appeared for all the world as if he were trying to see to the back of her brain. He reached for his glass and took a drink of water. He sucked an ice cube into his mouth and a drop of water rested on his top lip. He chewed the ice and she looked away.

“I read your last
Single Girl
column,” Fish told her. “I think you're right that nice guys really do finish last. I'm a nice guy, and I have to give up my house on Mercer to my ex-wife.”

“That's because she caught you with another woman,” Sutter reminded him. “That really tends to piss off the old lady.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Fish grumbled and looked over at Jane. “What are you writing now?”

She hadn't really come up with much yet. Nothing she wanted to discuss anyway, but she opened her mouth and, “Is a one-night stand ever a good idea?” popped out. She immediately wished she could take that one back.

“I think it is,” Peluso said from down the table.

“Yeah.”

“I say go for it.”

“Unless you're married,” Fish added. “You're not planning a one-nighter, are you?”

She shrugged and forced herself to sound cool and emotionless. Detached. Like a man. “I'm thinking about it. There's a guy with the Detroit press who's very hot. I talked to him the last time I was here.”

Across the table Luc stood, and she watched him move toward the bar. Her gaze slid down the back of his blue-and-white-striped dress shirt to the behind of his Levi's.

“If you ever need help with your columns, we could tell you how guys really think,” Peluso added. “The real stuff.”

Jane really didn't want to know “the real stuff.” It was just too scary. “Maybe I'll get back to you when I have a firmer grasp on the direction I want the column to take.”

“Cool.”

She looked up as Luc returned with two sets of darts. “You owe me a chance to get my fifty bucks back,” he said. “Same rules apply as last time.”

“I don't think so.”

“I do.” He grasped her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Pick the sharpest darts,” he said, then he grabbed her hand and slapped them in her palm. Next to her ear he added, just above a whisper, “Don't make me carry you to the tape line.”

His brows were lowered and his gaze fierce, as if
he
had something to be mad about. Fine. It would feel good to kick his butt. Since she couldn't do it physically, she'd wipe the floor with him in darts.

“Remember the rules,” he said as she tested the points. “There's no crying like a girl when you lose.”

“You can't beat me on your best day.” She flipped her hair like a girl and handed over the sharpest three darts. “This isn't a sport for sissies like you're used to, Martineau. Your teammates can't save you, and there's no hiding behind pads and a helmet in darts.”

“That's low, Sharky,” Sutter told her.

Her mouth dropped open. “That's trash talk.”

“That was a real cheap shot,” Fish added.

“Last time, you guys said I was a lesbian,” she reminded them. They all shrugged. “Hockey players,” she said and marched across the bar to the dartboard, with Luc walking beside her. Her shoulder brushed his arm, and she felt the contact all over. She widened the space between them.

“What are you doing here with him?” Luc asked as they stopped at the tape line.

“Who?”

“Darby.”

“We had dinner.”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

If she weren't so mad, she would have laughed. “That's none of your business.”

“What about the Detroit reporter?”

There was no reporter, but she wasn't about to tell him that. “What about him?”

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“I thought you didn't care whom or how or what position I preferred.”

He stared at her, then said through clenched teeth, “Shoot the damn darts.”

She looked up at him. His clenched jaw, his eyes shooting blue flames like when someone dared to shoot a puck in his net. He was clearly angry. At her. He was insane. “Stand back,” she said as she lined up her first shot. “I'm gonna kick your butt.” She doubled on with her first throw and scored eighty by the time she was through.

Luc scored forty and slapped the darts in her palm. “The light sucks in here.”

“No.” She smiled and took great pleasure in announcing, “You suck.”

His gaze narrowed.

Weeks of anger and hurt poured out of her and she said, louder than she'd intended, “And worse—you're a whiner.”

A collective intake of breath caught their attention and she and Luc turned and looked at the guys watching a few feet away.

“Lucky's gonna kill Sharky,” Sutter predicted from the sidelines.

By tacit agreement they both went to their respective corners. Jane shot and scored sixty-five. Luc scored thirty-four.

“Now, remind me. Why do they call you Lucky?” she asked as she reached for the darts.

He pulled them back out of her reach as a slow, purely licentious smile curved his mouth. A smile that told her he was remembering her on her knees kissing his tattoo. “I'm sure if you think long and hard, you'll remember the answer to that.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Some things just aren't that memorable.” She held out her hand and he placed the darts in her palm.

Instead of moving to stand by the guys, he remained right next to her and said, “I could remind you.”

“No, thanks.” She shot a triple eight and aimed for a triple twenty. “Once was enough for me.”

“If that's true,” he said, “why'd we do it three times?”

“What's the matter?” She looked across her shoulder at him. “Is your ego in need of stroking tonight?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

He'd decided to talk to her and she was supposed to fall at his feet. He probably thought she'd fall there and kiss his tattoo again. Fat chance. “Not interested. Find someone else.”

“I don't want anyone else.” His words felt like a warm caress when he added, “I want you, Jane.”

Her anger fled and all that was left was her deep hurt. It churned in her stomach and twisted her heart. Before she risked bursting into tears like a girl, she shoved the darts at him. “Too bad,” she said, turned on her heels, and left the bar. She made it to her room on the twenty-first floor before her vision blurred. She would not cry over Luc Martineau, she told herself as she blotted her eyes with a tissue.

She was in her hotel room ten minutes before he pounded on her door. Afraid that the commotion would alert the security staff, she let him in.

“What do you want, Luc?” She folded her arms across her chest and held her ground.

He moved into the room and forced her back a few steps. “You,” he answered as the door shut behind him.

“Not interested.” He moved so close that her forearms touched his chest. He was purposely invading her space, and she walked across the room from him, away from the scent of his cologne. “You told me you didn't think of me as a groupie, but that is exactly how you've made me feel.”

“I'm sorry about that.” His brows lowered and he looked down at the floor between his feet. “I didn't mean to make you feel like a groupie.”

“Too late. You can't take me to bed, then never give me another thought, as if I'm nothing.”

“I've never thought you were nothing.” He glanced back up at her, his blue gaze direct when he said, “I've thought about you, Jane.”

“When? When you were with other women?”

“I haven't been with anyone but you.”

She was relieved but still mad as hell. “Were you thinking of me when you were busy ignoring me?”

“Yes.”

“And avoiding me?”

“Yes. All those times and all the times in between.”

“Right.”

“I think about you, Jane.” He walked toward her until mere inches separated them. “A lot.”

She'd believed him when he'd told her the same thing a few weeks ago. Not this time. “I've heard it from you before, and it's not true,” she said, but there was a traitorous piece of her heart that wanted to believe him—
bad
.
She took a step back and her calves hit the edge of the bed.

“Oh, it's true. Awake or asleep, I can't get you out of my head.” He grasped her shoulders and pushed her down on the bed. “You're a complication I don't need.” He followed, placed his hands on each side of her head, and planted his knee between her thighs. “But you're a complication I want. One I'm going to have.”

She put her hands on his chest to stop him. Through the cotton of his shirt, he threw off heat like a furnace and warmed her palms. “I don't think you know what you want.”

“Yes. I do. I want you, and being with you feels a hell of a lot better than being without you. I'm not going to fight it anymore.” He kissed her between her brows. “I'm not going to fight what I feel for you. It's a losing battle, and I just end up pissed off.”

His words defused her anger somewhat, but fear still weighed heavy in her heart. “What do you feel?” she asked, even though she wasn't completely certain she wanted to know.

He brushed his lips across her forehead. “I feel like you've hit me between the eyes with the butt end of a stick.”

He hadn't said he was falling in love with her, but getting hit in the head with a stick was pretty good. Instead of pushing him away, she ran her hands over his chest. “Is that a good thing?”

“It doesn't feel like a good thing. You've put my life in chaos.”

Good, because she was feeling very chaotic herself. She struggled to hold on to her hurt, but instead she pulled his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. She gazed up into his eyes, then her scrutiny slid to his mouth.

“How did you get the scar on your chin?” she asked.

“Fell off my bike when I was about ten.”

“The scar on your cheek?” She slid her hands beneath his shirt and touched his corrugated muscle and tight flesh.

“Bar fight when I was twenty-three.” He sucked in a breath. “Any more questions before I undress you?”

“Did it hurt when you got your tattoo?”

“I don't remember.” He lowered his mouth to hers. “I was pretty wasted at the time.” He silenced any further questions with a kiss that deepened by slow excruciating degrees. The kiss was sweet, gentle, but Jane wasn't in the mood for sweet and gentle. She pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him, like a mountain she'd conquered before but was looking forward to exploring again. The kiss turned hotter as she unbuttoned his shirt. With his wrists crossed above his head, he watched her from beneath lowered lids as she ran her hands and mouth over him. When she bit his shoulder, he brushed her hair from her face and brought her mouth back to his. He turned her onto her back and stripped her naked while feeding her kisses. Everywhere his hands touched, his mouth followed: her shoulder, her throat, her breast. They lay naked in each other's arms, and when she could stand it no more, she slid a condom on his hot erection and straddled him once again. As she lowered herself, he thrust upward and buried himself deep within her.

“Jane,” he gasped, “hold still a minute.”

She squeezed her muscles around him and a groan rumbled in his chest. His eyes slid shut, and when he opened them again, raw lust shone up at her, hot and intoxicating. He slid one hand behind her neck and the other to her hip. He pulled her face down to his, and he held her still as he gently kissed her lips. His tongue lightly touched hers, and he created a soft suction as if he were sucking the juice from a peach. As if she tasted sweet and very good to him. He slipped his hand up her back and spine, then down to her hip, stroking her, creating fire inside and out. She tore her mouth from his as she quickened the pace. His blue eyes gazed up at her, shining with his passion. He whispered her name like a gentle caress. The heated tension inside her tightened and coiled until she came apart in hot uncontrollable waves of pleasure.