Sam and Alexander Devereaux were the first to skate toward her, but the rest followed close behind.
“I’ll do it.”
“Count me in.”
Soon eight big defensemen, including Vlad, had volunteered.
“Let’s take the picture at center ice,” Brad suggested. “I’ll try and get some of the logo in the shot.”
Faith carefully stepped onto the ice, and Blake Conte offered his arm. “Be careful, Mrs. Duffy,” he said. “You wouldn’t want to fall and hurt yourself.”
Sam offered his arm on her other side. “Someone might have to give you CPR.”
“I know mouth-to-mouth,” Blake added, and Faith sincerely hoped she would never have to take him up on the offer. For some bizarre reason, he’d shaved his playoffs beard into a reddish blond strip of hair beneath his nose. It ran down his chin, too. Kind of like he’d gone in for a wax and come out with a Brazilian on his face.
“And chest compressions,” Sam said, whose playoffs beard was blond and kind of patchy.
Faith placed her hands on their forearms and smiled. “It’s good to know you boys are worth more to me than just looking good, shooting pucks, and spitting.” Being the female owner of a hockey team had a few nice perks. Being escorted by two very hot hockey players was a good one.
“Look at those bastards,” Ty said from his position halfway across the ice from Faith. “You’d think they’d never been around a woman before.” The last time he’d seen Faith, she’d pulled up her shirt, then told him she was bored. Sure, he’d said it first, but he’d been lying.
First-string goaltender Marty Darche pushed the front of his helmet up and revealed his impressive facial hair. “You’ve got to admit, Saint, there aren’t a lot of women around who look like her.” He leaned back against the pipes and shook his head. “Damn.”
The photographer pointed to a few of the guys and called out, “Why don’t one of you men give Mrs. Duffy your stick?” The whole blue line rushed forward.
“I wouldn’t mind giving her my stick,” Marty said through a chuckle.
Ty liked Marty. Usually, he’d laugh at the stupid shit that came out of Marty’s mouth. Most of the time he’d add his own stupid shit and say something about eight to ten inches of good wood. Today he didn’t find any of it amusing, for some unknown reason. Maybe he was tired or dehydrated or something. He tended to lose his sense of humor when he was tired or dehydrated.
“Have you seen the pictures of her?”
“Yeah.” The damn pictures. But today he didn’t see the damn pictures when he looked at her. He saw her teasing smile and her smooth belly. He saw her eyes as she’d looked back over her shoulder and said she was bored.
The defense crowded around her for the photo and she laughed. The sound rippled across the ice. It brushed across his skin and tightened his chest. Surrounded by big, hulking men wearing skates and shoulder pads, she looked small and so beautifully female.
When he looked at her across the ice, he didn’t see the Playmate. He saw the woman he’d kissed in a hotel in San Jose. He could almost feel her sexy mouth beneath his and her hands in his hair. He could see the lust in her eyes and feel the need in her kiss. He’d kissed and been kissed by a lot of women in his life, but he’d never been kissed like that. Like an all-consuming desperation that was so hot, it made his gut clench.
“Some of you guys come out a bit,” the photographer said. “That’s good.”
Pavel was on a kick about Ty meeting Valerie, but Ty had no interest in meeting his father’s latest. Especially when chances were good that he’d have a different girlfriend in a month or two. Especially if it meant hanging out with the woman across the ice who was having a great old time laughing and giggling and turning a bunch of hockey players into slobbering idiots.
He’d rather be fed his lunch by a 250-pound enforcer with something to prove. He might walk away from that encounter bruised and bloody, but a few cuts and a black eye was a hell of a lot better than another set of painful blue balls.
“Oysters are a natural aphrodisiac of the gods.” Valerie reached for an oyster from the iced plate in the middle of the table and slurped it down. “You should have at least one, Faith. It wouldn’t hurt. Might even help.”
“No thanks, Mom. More bread?” She picked up the white plate and held it across the table. Could her mother be any more embarrassing? Sadly, the answer was yes.
“No, thank you.”
“Pavel?” Within the booth of the Brooklyn Seafood Steak and Oyster House in downtown Seattle, Faith’s stomach rolled as she held the small plate for her mother’s boyfriend.
“No. Thank you,” he answered as he held a rough shell to his mouth. He tipped it up and an oyster slid into his mouth and down his throat.
Faith turned her face away and swallowed hard.
“More than your eyes look a little green,” Ty said next to her ear.
She set the plate on the table, which was covered in white linen. “I hate oysters.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Because my mother wanted to come.” It had been Valerie’s big idea that they should all go out to dinner together, and Faith had reluctantly agreed. If she’d known she’d have to watch her mother and Pavel slurp down oysters, she would have stayed at home with her feet up. Even if it meant spending time with the evil Pebbles.
“I notice you’re not eating any,” she pointed out to Ty.
“I don’t eat anything that looks like that.” One corner of his mouth lifted in an actual smile. He lowered his voice and said next to her ear, “At least not in public.”
“Was that some sort of inappropriate sexist comment?”
His eyes met hers. “That depends. Were you offended?”
“I probably should be.”
He let his gaze slowly lower from her face, down her bare throat to the top button of her pink shirtdress. “But you’re not—eh?”
“No. You seem to bring out inappropriate behavior in me.” She licked her lips and shook her head. “We should stick to safe subjects.”
“Too late.” He raised his gaze to hers. “I’m having some inappropriate thoughts.”
“You are?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What?”
“Kissing your mouth like I did a few weeks ago and working my way south.”
He was thinking all that? She squeezed her legs together against the tight ache pooling between her thighs.
“What are you talking about?” her mother wanted to know.
“The weather.” Faith looked across the table as the waiter cleared the oyster plate. “I just asked Ty how he likes Seattle.”
He reached for his glass of wine, and the sleeve of his dark-blue dress shirt brushed her bare arm. “It’s not that much different from Vancouver.” He took a drink, then set the glass back on the table. “Scheduling a round of golf is dicey.”
“I don’t play golf, but the summer is much drier,” she answered, trying like hell to ignore the flush of lust warming up her skin. “Jules told me that there’s a Chinooks celebrity golf tournament some time this summer. The money goes to help injured players, like Mark Bressler.”
“That was tragic.” Pavel shook his head. “Such a loss to the team. Losing a captain is like cutting out the heart of the team.”
Ty’s jaw tightened. “Captains are traded all the time, Dad. It’s not like when you played.”
An almost imperceptible tension settled over the booth. “That’s true,” Pavel conceded. “Now there is no loyalty.”
The salad course arrived and Faith waited until fresh pepper was ground on everyone’s salad before she said, “Well, I know that everyone in the Chinooks organization is thrilled to have Ty. If that upsets our neighbors to the North…” She shrugged and tried to take her mind off the man sitting next to her. “They’ll get over it. I mean, they got over the defection of Jim Carrey.” She reached for her linen napkin on her lap. “Although Canada should probably give us a big, fat thanks for taking Jim off their hands. Did you see The Cable Guy?” She speared a bite of her roasted beet and butter lettuce. She looked across her shoulder at Ty, who was almost smiling. “What?”