“I assume so,” he says with a pointed look. “She’s the boss, after all.”

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter as I turn away from the stairwell door and move to the elevators. She’s on the top level, and no way I’m climbing that far.

  Stepping out into the executive offices, I’m greeted by a receptionist. I don’t even have to give my name before she says, “Ms. Norcross is expecting you, Mr. McGinn. Her office is through those doors, left at the end of the hallway, and go all the way down. It’s the corner office.”

  “Thanks,” I say and follow her directions. I find Brienne’s office easy enough, and the only reason I know it’s hers is that I can see her through the open door. She’s sitting behind a large, masculine desk with the Pittsburgh skyline behind her, framed in the floor-to-ceiling windows. To the right is a stunning view of the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers where they form the Ohio.

  Brienne’s on the phone, but her eyes lock with mine and she waves me in. The plaque outside her door still bears her brother’s name, and I wonder if she’s left that in homage or if she’s been too busy to have it changed.

  As I take a seat in a burgundy leather club chair, I take in the ornate, traditional furniture and dark colors of the artwork. I’m guessing all this was Adam’s, as it doesn’t seem to suit her taste.

  Then again, her house—or rather, mansion—was filled with similar furnishings and décor. But that didn’t jibe for me either. I peg her as a progressive, modern woman who would appreciate sleek lines and airy spaces. She doesn’t seem to favor frills either. While I have no doubt her clothing is designer, she doesn’t wear a lot of jewelry, and once again, her makeup is simple and tasteful outside of that red lipstick, which I think might be her trademark.

  I settle back into the chair, prop a booted ankle on my knee, and listen to her conversation. It has something to do with the Federal Reserve Board, and I’m lost in the first few seconds of my eavesdropping. I might not understand what she’s saying, but I do understand a woman who’s brilliant and knows her shit. I’d read that she has an MBA, but I have a feeling most of her smarts stem from firsthand experience. She was raised to run this empire when her father would no longer be able to do so.

  She wraps up the call in less than five minutes and apologizes. “I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” Standing from her chair, Brienne rounds the desk and sits in the club chair next to the one I’m in. She crosses one long leg over the other, looking as comfortable in those skyscraper heels as she would in house slippers. I can’t help but notice the bottom of her dress has a slight slit in the side, and her legs are smooth and bare.

  They’d look good over my shoulders, no doubt.

  I don’t even think to chastise myself for my lecherous thoughts, because ever since my ex went psycho, the only interest I have in women is of a physical nature.

  And Brienne is a woman I can’t help but be interested in.

  “How was the first day of camp?” she asks with a faint smile.

  “It was fine,” I reply with a frown. “But that’s not why you called me here, so why don’t you cut to the chase? I’ve got plans.”

  “Right.” She nods, and the smile vanishes. “There’s an article in the Times about you.”

  Immediately, rage builds. It’s not that I expected my return to hockey to be ignored, but the fact that Brienne feels the need to warn me about it means the press isn’t flattering. “And what does it say?”

  “It’s more about me than you,” she replies without any rancor. She clearly doesn’t give a fuck what people think about her, judging by the careless wave of her hand. “Questioning my business acumen in bringing you on. But this won’t be the first article, and eventually reporters will be asking you about it. So I’d like to get ahead of this, set up an interview with you and a trusted journalist who—”

  “No,” I growl.

  She blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Not doing it.” I stand from my chair, fists involuntarily clenching as I’ve been down this road before. Brienne rises, and I’m not sure what she sees on my face, but I’m guessing it matches the darkness within me. She walks over to the door to close it, and I’m so angry I can’t even appreciate the curves of her ass.

  Turning around, she takes a few steps back toward me. “We can nip this in the bud if we—”

  I stride to her, three long steps, and we’re toe to toe. She backs up, not in what I’d call fear, based on her expression, but definite wariness until she backs against the door she just closed.

  Despite her more than average height and the ridiculously tall heels, she still has to tip her head back to look at me. She swallows hard and tries again. “Drake… we have to confront it. Otherwise, it will get worse.”

  “For who?” I growl, pressing my palms to the door and effectively caging her in. “I’m guessing you think worse for you, but that’s your problem, not mine. I’ve been through this shit already, and I’m not getting sucked back into the public perception circus. Crystal told lies about me in an attempt to get custody of our kids. It was blatantly untrue, and no one should have believed it. I refuse to address those allegations again. They were put to rest long ago.”

  I expect her to argue—I’d never expect her to give up something she felt was important to her or the team—but something flickers in her eyes. A sudden awareness of how close we’re standing, and I’m stunned when her eyes wander down to the base of my throat where she can see the start of my tattoos. Etched along each collarbone are two dates. On the right, Jake’s birthday, and on the left, Colby and Tanner’s.

  Her chest rises as I dip my head to study her studying me.

  Fuck if her hand doesn’t rise and come within an inch of my collar, her fingers curled to pull it down to see more. My breath freezes, and my body locks tight. I don’t know what I’ll do if she touches me, but it might be that I bend her over her desk and—

  Brienne’s hand drops, and she ducks under my arm, sliding out of my trap and smoothing her dress. My head swivels slowly to look at her, palms still pressed to the door.

  We stare at each other in what seems like an intense battle of wills, and I know there are a few things that could happen. I could kiss her. She could fire me. It could be she’d get down on her knees for me if I asked, or maybe she’d let me bury my face between her legs. Every single option is acceptable.

  “I’ll issue a press release,” she finally says and retreats to her desk. “I’ll handle it.”

  It feels like a snap of energy releases when she puts distance between us, and I sigh as I straighten. That wasn’t an option I’d considered, her absolute retreat from me.

  I turn slightly, see that she’s picked up her phone and is flipping through something. She glances up, no smile and no warmth. “That will be all. Thank you.”

  Fuck if it doesn’t rankle me, the dismissal.

  I want to see challenge in her eyes, but I’m not getting it today. I give her a curt nod and walk out of her office.

  CHAPTER 4

  Brienne

  Drake shuts the door behind him, and when I hear the latch connect with a soft snick, I sink down into my chair with an exhale so long, my lungs ache. Tossing my phone onto the desk, I lean my head back against my chair and close my eyes.

  Christ, that was intense.

  I have no clue what is happening, but something comes over me when I’m in Drake’s presence and I lose every bit of my innate self. Gone is the businesswoman, and in her place is a woman who’s so discombobulated, she almost pulls his shirt down—without permission—to look at his tattoos.

  What the fuck, Brienne?

  I don’t understand it. I can have my pick of men. Hell, I have about as good a setup as one can have with Clay, and he’s absolutely gorgeous.

  So why am I lusting after a tattooed hockey player with a chip on his shoulder who’s been pretty much an ass since our first meeting?

  A tiny voice—maybe the devil sitting on my shoulder—says, Because Drake McGinn would be a walk on the dark and disorderly side. He’d dirty you up, take away all your control, and you’d come out on the other side a different woman.

  That voice isn’t wrong. I know a man like Drake would change me. He’s a forbidden fruit that once tasted, would lead me to sin over and over again.

  I just know it.

  “It’s wrong,” I say out loud, because I need to put it out there to the universe with my voice. My words are clear and confident. “It’s completely wrong to have a relationship with a player.”

  That inner voice pipes up again. That’s part of what makes it exciting, though, right?

  “Shut the fuck up,” I growl at myself.

  “Excuse me?”

  My head jerks up, and I see Jenna standing in my open doorway. I hadn’t even heard the door open I was so mired in what might be nothing more than a crush.

  A crush where I feel like the unseen girl in high school who has romantic visions of the captain of the football team.

  Yeah, that was me. I may have come from a wealthy, powerful family and attended private schools, but I was not popular in high school. I was too tall and gangly, flat chested, and had bad skin. Braces didn’t help the whole picture.

  The hot guys never looked my way, but I looked at them with longing.

  It’s how I feel with Drake, and I’m pissed at myself. I’m thirty-three years old and one of the richest women in the country. I’m invited to state dinners at the White House. I’m no longer gangly but graceful, I sport nice C-cup breasts, and I have a killer smile. How can a brash, tatted, long-haired hockey player—five years my junior, by the way—have such a pull on me?

  “Brienne… are you okay?” Jenna asks, and I sit forward. I hadn’t realized I’d laid my head back and closed my eyes again while ruminating.

  “God, yes,” I exclaim, offering her a smile. “Sorry… zoned out.”

  “Those looked like some deep thoughts.”

  Bad thoughts, I chastise myself. The most wicked.

  “What can I do for you?” I ask expectantly.

  “It’s time for lunch,” she says, frowning with worry. “With Tonya.”

  “Shit,” I mutter, rising from my chair. I’d forgotten we’re meeting with one of the Titans’ marketing managers. They want to roll out some new merchandise, and while I normally wouldn’t involve myself in the early stages of a campaign, our current VP of marketing is out on maternity leave. “I totally forgot.”

  “Which is why you asked me to come get you at one p.m.,” Jenna replies, the frown still in place. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” I say with a reassuring smile as I move around my desk. “Just a little frazzled today.”

  She cocks a golden eyebrow at me. “Interesting that you’re frazzled after Drake McGinn walked out of your office.”

  I shoot her an eye roll. “Please… that was just a short meeting about a press release.”

  “Okay,” she drawls as she follows me out of my office, but I hear the grin within her tone.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see her head ducked and lips curled upward. “What?” I demand irritably.

  Jenna shrugs as we walk down the hall. “Nothing. I mean, he is superhot. I could see a woman getting a little off-kilter around him.”

  “He does nothing for me.” An absolute, bald-faced lie. “I like my men a little more clean-cut.”

  “If you say so,” she says.

  “I say so.”

  Although I know damn well if Jenna came into my office after work, and we cracked a bottle of wine as we often do, I’d probably blab my attraction to Drake. Jenna may be an employee of the organization, but she’s become a friend too. It’s usually just a drink after work in my office, or a few times we’ve gone out to lunch when my schedule allows, but she’s the first woman I’ve been able to actually develop a real friendship with.

  In all my life, I’ve never had close female relationships, probably because I was thrust into a male-dominated world and I’ve had to be tough and closed off much of the time.

  Jenna’s an impossibly easy person to open up to. Kind, funny, and loyal, I know I could tell her about Drake and she wouldn’t judge in the slightest.

  But there’s nothing going on with Drake, and there never will be. In fact, I tap out a quick text to Clay as we move toward the elevator. Dinner tonight? My place?

  Best way to scrub Drake McGinn from my mind is to have Clay distract me in bed. Of course, it’s a crapshoot since fifty percent of the time I’m free, he’s not, and vice versa.

  I’m surprised when I get a quick text back. Absolutely. Eight p.m.?

  That works, I type back and exhale in relief.

  There… back on track. I’ll have my chef whip up something light for us, we’ll share a drink, and then I’ll let Clay fuck my brains out.

  It’s a good plan.

  ♦

  The doorbell rings, but I don’t move to answer it. Daniel will handle it. He’s the employee who manages most of the household affairs, and since I hate the term butler—it implies I can’t open the damn door myself—I call him my house manager. He’s the only full-time employee for the house, and he’s been here for thirteen years, so there’s no way I can let him go.

  Daniel also cooks for me in the evenings if I’m home because no one wants me to burn down the place. I have a once-weekly cleaning service, but truly, it takes them no time at all as most of the house is closed off. I basically use the master suite, my home office, and the kitchen where I’m able to whip up a smoothie with no danger.

  The house is a lot of square footage for just me, and I don’t particularly like living here, but it’s a duty. I was living in a condo downtown and moved back home after my father died. Someone needed to live here, and Adam didn’t want it. He liked being in the city, too, like me.

  But I was head of the family once my father breathed his last, so I was the logical choice. There’s no rule against selling this place—it’s more room than I could ever hope to use—but it is the family home, passed down through the generations, so I feel obligated.

  It should’ve been Adam’s one day, after he married and could fill it with kids. Except I’m here now, and it’s so empty even the tiniest sound echoes through the cavernous rooms.

  My fingers fly over my keyboard as I want to finish my thoughts on this email before I lose them.

  After only a few moments, Daniel steps into the office and announces Clay. “Dr. Bessel has arrived.”

  I glance up as Clay sidesteps Daniel, offer him a quick smile, and hold up a finger that I need a minute.

  “Can I get you a drink, Dr. Bessel?” Daniel asks.

  “Gin and tonic,” Clay replies.

  “I’ll take one too,” I say while still typing.

  Clay is patient as I finish the email, and when I hit Send, I move from the desk and into his arms.

  Not for a hug, because that’s not our relationship. Instead, my hands press into his chest, and he gives me a light kiss on my cheek.

  Clay Bessel would tick every box on a list a woman might write if she were building her fantasy man. Raven-black hair with piercing blue eyes, chiseled jaw, and a strong physique. He’s brilliant, accomplished, and wealthy. Not Norcross wealthy, but top-notch neurosurgeons make a great living.

  He is what every woman aspires to have as a lover. Moreover, many women would want to land an engagement ring on her finger from someone like Clay.

  “You look as lovely as ever,” he says as I step back from him.

  I sigh, pulling the pins from my chignon so my hair falls free. “I wanted time to shower before you came, but I had too much to do. Did you have the day off?”

  “I did and got in eighteen holes and shot a seventy-one.”

  “Nice,” I commend. On the very rare occasion I have a Saturday or Sunday free, Clay sometimes takes me out for a round of golf.

  He leans in, his hand going to my hip. “If you want, we can skip dinner and head to your room. You can take that shower, and I’d be more than happy to scrub your back.”

  Ordinarily, I’d take Clay up on his offer, but all I can think about is if it were Drake standing here and how, if I’d mentioned I hadn’t had time to shower, he’d have picked me up, thrown me over his shoulder, and carried me to the master bath.

  He wouldn’t have asked.

  He also wouldn’t have kissed my cheek in greeting but would have bent me over backward with a sinful kiss. He wouldn’t have said I was lovely, but would have said something dirty like, “You’re so hot, I’m hard as a rock.”

  I try not to laugh at the comparison, because really, I know nothing about Drake other than he’s a jerk more often than not.

  Daniel returns with our drinks.

  “Thank you,” I say to him, cursing myself that I’m thinking about Drake. He’s become like that phenomenon when you hear a catchy tune and then can’t purge it from your head. It plays on repeat.

  I can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if…

  No. Time to stop.

  “Dinner is ready when you are, Ms. Norcross.” Daniel backs out of the room, and Clay holds his glass out to me. I tap mine against his, and we both sip.

  Rather, I take a small gulp.

  We move out of the office and head to the formal dining room. Normally, I eat in the breakfast nook or at the kitchen island, but Daniel likes to set a formal table when I have a dinner guest. Hell, if I let him, he’d be up in the master suite sprinkling rose petals all over the bed. He’s no dummy. Daniel knows that when Clay comes to dinner, he’ll end up in my bed soon after.

  Because… that’s our routine. It’s what we do and have done for the last year.

  Clay pulls my chair out, and after I sit, he takes the adjacent chair at the head of the table. With napkins in our lap, Daniel brings in two covered plates. He sets them before us and with a flourish, removes the silvered domes.

  “Oh, that looks fabulous,” I breathe out.

  Daniel smiles and gives a half bow. “Mixed greens, strawberries, pecans, and fresh poached lobster tails with a champagne vinaigrette.”