Chapter One
Any Man of Mine:
No Professional Athletes
Sam LeClaire was a good-looking son of a bitch. Everyone thought so. Everyone from sports writers to soccer moms. The girl wrapped up in his sheets thought so, too. Although she real y wasn’t a girl. She was a woman.
“I don’t see why I can’t go.”
Sam glanced up from the knot in his blue-striped tie and looked in the mirror at the supermodel in his bed. Her name was Veronica Del Toro, but she was known by just her first name. Like Tyra and Heidi and Gisele.
“Because I didn’t know you were going to be in town,” he explained for the tenth time. “Bringing a guest at this late date would be rude.” Which wasn’t the real reason.
“But I’m Veronica.”
Now, there. There was the real reason. She was rude and narcissistic. Not that he held that against anyone. He could be rude and narcissistic himself; but, unlike the stories written about him, he real y did know when to behave.
“I won’t eat much.”
Try not at al . That was one of the things that irritated him about Veronica. She never ate. She ordered food like she was starving, but she pushed it around her plate.
Sam slid up the knot and tilted his chin to one side as he buttoned down the col ar. “I already cal ed you a cab.” In the mirror he watched Veronica rise from his bed and walk toward him. She moved across his carpet as if she was on the catwalk. Al long legs and arms, big breasts yet hardly a jiggle.
“When are you going to be back?” she asked as she wrapped her arms around his waist. She rested her chin on his shoulder and looked at him through dark brown eyes.
“Late.” He tilted his head to the other side and, as he buttoned the other col ar point, he glanced at the big Stanley Cup champion ring on the dresser. The white-and yel ow-gold ring had 160 diamonds, emeralds, and sapphires fashioned into the team logo on its face. On one side the Stanley Cup and the year had been engraved. On the other, his name and number. He’d had it out to show Veronica, but he didn’t plan to put it on. Even if he had been a guy who wore jewelry, which he wasn’t, the huge ring covered the finger on his right hand to his knuckle and was over-the-top. Even for a guy who liked over-the-top.
“How late?”
Looking in the mirror, he slid his gaze to the clock on his nightstand. It was already half past six, and the wedding started at seven. He real y hadn’t had the time to meet Veronica. But she wasn’t in town that often, and she’d promised a quickie. He should have known better. She was Veronica and wasn’t quick about anything. “Real late. When do you fly out?”
“In the morning.” She sighed and slid her long hands up his dress shirt to his hard pecs. “I could wait.”
He turned, and her palms slid to his waist. “I don’t know when I’l get back. This thing could run real late.” Although with the regular season opener in just five days, he doubted it. He pushed her dark hair behind her shoulder. “Cal me the next time you’re in Seattle.”
“That could be months, and by then you’l be on the road playing hockey.” She dropped her hands and moved toward the bed. He watched her skinny behind as she stepped into her tiny panties. There were a lot of things to like about Veronica. Her face. Her body. The fact that she was superficial, and there was nothing deep going on in her pretty head. There was nothing wrong with being superficial. Nothing wrong with living on the surface and avoiding lapses into deep thought. It made life easier. “We can always meet up on the road again.”
“True.” She reached for a red T-shirt and pul ed it over her head before stepping into a pair of jeans. “But by then you’l have a black eye.”
He grinned. “True.” He grabbed his suit jacket and slid his arms inside. Last season, he’d hooked up with her in Pittsburgh. That night against the Penguins, he’d scored a goal, spent four minutes in the sin bin for a double minor, and got his first major shiner of the season. Maybe she’d bring him the same sort of luck this year. He reached for his wal et and shoved it into the back pocket of his khaki trousers.
“Last season your beautiful face was a mess,” Veronica said as she slid her feet into a pair of pumps. It hadn’t been that bad. Just a few stitches and minor bruises. He’d certainly suffered worse during his sixteen years in the NHL.
“You should model.”
“No. Thanks.” A few years ago, he’d done an underwear ad for Diesel, and he’d found the whole process a colossal bore. He’d spent most of an entire day sitting around in white briefs while the crew set up for different shots. The end result had been huge bil boards and magazine ads of him with his junk practical y hanging out and looking particularly enormous. The guys on the team had razzed him endlessly, and his mother had been afraid to show her face in church for a month. After that experience, he decided to leave modeling to the guys who liked that sort of attention. Guys like Beckham. Together, he and Veronica walked from the bedroom of Sam’s downtown loft. Within the open interior, gray shadow hugged the leather furnishings as fading sunlight cast dul patterns across the wood floor.