“That’s understandable given your history, I suppose.” She’d clearly read up on him.
“What history?” He wondered if she’d read that piece-of-shit book The Bad Boys of Hockey, which had devoted five chapters to him, complete with pictures. About half of what the author claimed in that book was pure gossip and absolute fabrication. And the only reason Luc hadn’t sued was because he didn’t want the added media attention.
“Your history with the press.” She took a drink of her coffee and shrugged. “The ubiquitous coverage of your problems with drugs and women.”
Yep, she’d read it. And who the hell used words like ubiquitous? Reporters, that’s who. “For the record, I’ve never had problems with women. Ubiquitous or otherwise. You should know better than to believe everything you read.”
At least not anything criminal. And his addiction to painkillers was in the past. Where he intended for it to stay.
He ran his gaze from her slicked-back hair, across the flawless skin of her face, and down the rest of her wrapped up in that awful coat. Maybe if she loosened up her hair she wouldn’t look like such a tight ass. “I’ve read your column in the paper,” he said and glanced up into her green eyes. “You’re the single girl who bitches about commitment and can’t find a man.” Her dark brows slashed lower and her gaze turned hard. “Meeting you, I can see your problem.” He’d hit a nerve. Good. Maybe she’d stay away from him.
“Are you still clean and sober?” she asked.
He figured if he didn’t answer, she’d make up something. They always did. “Absolutely.”
“Really?” Her lowered brows rose in perfect arches as if she didn’t really believe him.
He took a step closer. “Want me to piss in your cup, sweetheart?” he asked the hard-eyed, uptight, probably-hadn’t-had-sex-in-five-years woman in front of him.
“No, thanks, I take my coffee black.”
He might have taken a moment to appreciate her comeback if she wasn’t a reporter and if it didn’t feel as if she were being forced on him, like it or not. “If you change your mind about that, let me know. And don’t think that Duffy shoving you down the guys’ throats is going to make your job easy.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning whatever you think it means,” he said and walked away.
He walked the short distance to the parking garage and found his gray Ducati leaning on its stand next to the handicapped slot. The color of the motorcycle perfectly matched the thick clouds hanging over the city and the gloomy garage. He strapped his duffel on the back of the Duke and straddled the black seat. With the heel of his boot, he kicked up the stand and fired the twin-cylinder engine. He didn’t spare Ms. Alcott another thought as he sped from the parking lot, the muffled bark of the engine trailing behind him. He made his way past Tini Bigs bar and up Broad to Second Avenue, and within a few short blocks he pulled into the common garage of his condominium complex and parked the motorcycle next to his Land Cruiser.
Luc hooked two fingers beneath the cuff of his jacket and glanced at his watch. Grabbing his duffel, he figured he had three more hours of quiet. He thought he might put in a game tape and relax in front of his big-screen television. Maybe call a friend and have her over for lunch. A certain leggy redhead came to mind.
Luc stepped out of the elevator onto the nineteenth floor and moved down the hall to the northeast corner condo. He’d bought it shortly after his trade to the Chinooks last summer. He wasn’t crazy about the interior-which reminded him of the old cartoon The Jetsons with its chrome and stone and rounded corners-but the view… the view kicked ass.
He opened the door, and his plans for the day collapsed as he tripped over a blue North Face backpack thrown on the beige carpet. A red snowboard coat was tossed on the navy leather sofa, and rings and bracelets were piled in a heap on one of the wrought-iron-and-glass end tables. Rap music blared through his stereo system, and Shaggy did the bump and grind on Luc’s big-screen television, which was tuned in to MTV.
Marie. Marie was home early.
Luc tossed the backpack and his duffel on the sofa as he moved down the hall. He knocked on the first of the three bedroom doors, then he cracked it open. Marie lay on her bed, her short dark hair pulled up on top of her head like a stunted black feather duster. Mascara pooled beneath her eyes and her cheeks were pale. She held a ragged blue Care Bear to her chest.
“What are you doing home?” he asked.
“The school tried to call you. I don’t feel well.”
Luc moved into the room for a closer look at his sixteen-year-old sister all curled up on her lace duvet. He figured she was probably crying about her mother again. It had only been a month since her funeral, and he thought he ought to say something to console Marie, but he really didn’t know what to say and he always seemed to make everything worse when he tried.
“Do you have the flu?” he asked instead. She looked so much like her mother it was spooky. Or what he remembered her mother looked like.
“No.”
“Coming down with a cold?”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I just feel sick.”
Luc had been sixteen himself when his sister had been born to his father and his father’s fourth wife. Other than a few holiday visits, Luc had never been around Marie. He’d been so much older. They’d lived in Los Angeles; he’d lived across the country. He’d been busy with his own life, and until she’d come to live with him last month, he hadn’t seen her since their father’s funeral ten years ago. Now he found himself suddenly responsible for a sister he didn’t even know. He was her only living relative under retirement age. He was a hockey player. A bachelor. A guy. And he didn’t have a clue what in the hell to do with her.
“Do you want some soup?” he asked.
She shrugged as more water filled her eyes. “I guess so,” she sniffed.
Relieved, Luc quickly left the room and headed for the kitchen. He pulled a big can of chicken noodle from the cupboard and shoved it beneath the can opener sitting on the black marble countertop. He knew she was having a difficult time, but Jesus, she was driving him crazy. If she wasn’t crying, she was sulking. If she wasn’t sulking, she was rolling her big blue eyes at him as if he were a moron.
Luc poured the soup into two bowls and added water. He’d tried to send her to counseling, but she’d been through counseling during her mother’s illness and she was adamant that she’d had enough.
He shoved his and Marie’s lunch into the microwave and set the time. Besides making him crazy, having a moody teenage girl in his house seriously cut into his social life. Lately, the only time he had to himself was on the road. Something had to change. This situation wasn’t working out for either of them. He’d had to hire a responsible woman to come and stay with Marie and live in his condo when he was out of town. Her name was Gloria Jackson and she was probably in her sixties. Marie didn’t like her, but Marie didn’t seem to like anyone.
The best thing to do would be to find Marie a good boarding school. She’d be happier there, living with girls her own age who knew about hair and makeup and liked listening to rap. He felt a twinge of guilt. His reasons for sending her to boarding school weren’t totally altruistic. He wanted his old life back. That might make him a selfish bastard, but he’d worked hard to reclaim that life. To climb out of the chaos and into relative calm.
“I need some money.”
Luc turned from his observation of the soup spinning around in the microwave to his sister standing in the doorway of the kitchen. They’d already talked about a special account for her. “After we sell your mother’s house and your Social Security starts to kick in, you’ll-”
“I need some today,” she interrupted him. “Right now.”