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  Oh god, no.

  A gaping hole of hopelessness tore through me as the starter whistle shrilled from the screen. I reached for my mobile and brought up his number. I had to speak to him. Ask him about Mae. I needed to know.

  Suddenly I realized how stupid I was being. Of course he wouldn’t answer it, he was on the ice, playing. I grabbed my wine and knocked back the whole glass in one go. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Instead I kicked the sofa and created a big dent in the cream leather. What had I done? How could I not have anticipated this? How could I have anticipated this? I’d thought, hell, everyone thought, Brick’s affair with the chart-topping country singer was over.

  I grabbed the remote. I couldn’t watch the game. Not with her there. Not when there was a possibility she’d put her hands and her mouth on that ring since I had. The feeling of possessiveness was overwhelming, as was the anger. I couldn’t think straight, the image of them in bed together filled my mind and pushed away all coherent thoughts.

  My vision blurred and red rage seeped into the periphery. She was no doubt smiling because she knew she was going to get alone time with Brick’s cock when the game was over. Back at his place, with a bottle of champagne and candles flickering as they sprawled on a four-poster bed.

  “And it was always going to get personal,” shouted the commentator, startling me out of my inner raging. “The Diggers just have a way of winding their opponents up.”

  My finger hovered over the off switch.

  “And it looks like Phoenix has had enough of being hooked.” There was a roar from the crowd. The camera zoomed in on a huddle of players. The Diggers were in black and gold, the Vipers in red and white. The scuffle going on was a mix of all four colors whirling and rolling, blending and bouncing. Phoenix was at the center. “And gloves are off,” shouted the commentator. Though he didn’t need to. Gloves and sticks were hitting the Plexiglas and ice, so were helmets.

  The ref’s whistle rang out but no one took any notice. Still the fight continued. More players whizzed up and joined in. Fists flew, jerseys were tugged and dragged, players were brutally shoved and fell to the ice. I spotted Brick yanking at a Digger who’d wrapped an elbow around Wolf’s neck. The camera moved in close. Brick looked furious, his teeth gritted, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks red. Wolf threw a punch upward, made contact and the guy slackened his grip, leaving Wolf free to block the fist aimed for his solar plexus by another Digger.

  I gasped.

  Before it happened I knew it was going to. Though the TV roared, in my head, everything went quiet. It was happening fast, but time dropped to slow motion. The Digger Brick had grabbed drew back his arm and pummeled forward. The heavy blow struck Brick in the right eye socket.

  “No,” I cried, stepping up to the TV.

  Brick reeled backward with the force of the punch. But he paused for only a second, then he was raining down blows on his attacker. His balled fists flew at the Digger’s face, he missed so grabbed his jersey, buried his head into his opponent’s chest like a charging bull and sent them both reeling, skidding and tumbling on the ice.

  “Get him,” I heard myself shout, my own fists clenching as I hopped from foot to foot. “Hit the bastard.”

  The fans were wild, their frenzied shouts almost drowning out the commentator.

  Eventually the refs separated the offenders.

  The head ref, a small man with a thin black moustache, sent four players to the sin bin and two went off the ice for game misconducts. One Digger and two Vipers went to the medic, including Brick.

  I strained to see Brick’s face as he skated off the ice. He’d taken one hell of a whack to his eye. He’d have a shiner tomorrow. I just hoped it wasn’t more serious. The thought of something happening to his perfect green eyes with their sparkling gold flecks was horrifying.

  I sat heavily on the sofa, my pasta supper lurching in my stomach. My hands were shaking and my heart pounding. I’d gone from the excitement of seeing Brick, to the sickening fury of Mae’s presence, to the horror of watching him attacked, all in a matter of minutes.

  I reached for the wine bottle. Topped myself up, hugged a cushion to my chest and set about watching the game. Well, I didn’t really watch. Although the players scored points and indulged in brutal checks, my eyes kept searching for Brick coming back onto the ice.

  Imagining him behind the scenes, head tipped back and medics hovering over him, made me nauseous. The first period break came and went. He still wasn’t back on the ice. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Oh god. He was really hurt. His eye really damaged. I reached for my mobile phone, pulling up his number again. Should I ring him?

  No.

  I couldn’t. Not now she was there. Heat rose on my cheeks. She was probably in the locker room with him. Holding his hand and fussing over him as the medics dressed his wounds or worse, waited for the ambulance to arrive.

  The match ended with the Vipers winning by one point. Another scuffle broke out as they headed to the tunnel and the linesmen had to drag two rookie players apart.

  Resting back on the sofa, I blew out a long breath. I had to think calmly. I couldn’t fall to pieces. Trouble was, rational thinking was slipping away rapidly and there was no fooling myself any longer. This had gone way beyond lusting after Brick and admiring him from afar.

  I was in love with him. One-hundred-damn-percent!

  He had taken my heart as swiftly as he could race over the ice. Stolen my thoughts and dreams before he’d ever even spent a night in my bed.

  I rubbed my palms over my cheeks. I knew I had it bad—seeing him injured had felt like a physical injury to my own body and my arms ached to hold him.

  My fingers twitched to dial his number again. I just wanted to speak to him. Make sure he was okay.

  Until I did that I didn’t know if I could even breathe.

  * * * * *

  The next two days dragged as if they were two years. I did extra miles on my bike to kill the time. Swam afterward for over an hour and tried on my satin dress for the ball a total of six times. It was a beautiful shade of shimmering peacock blue and hugged my figure from its modest neckline right down to my ankles. Skimming my slim hips and flat stomach, it showed the hint of shape my chest held. It had thin spaghetti straps and, although stunning from the front, its true appeal was the back. The straps fell over my shoulders then just kept on falling. Because I didn’t need to wear a bra, it hung open until it reached the very top of my buttocks, showing off my long, lean, suntanned back. It was risky—the way the material scooped at the base right near my bottom meant that just a hand into it would reveal I wasn’t wearing panties. But panties would totally ruin the lines, so I would be wearing just the dress. The dress, matching peep-toe heels and two longs strands of gold from my ears that my parents bought me after winning the U.S. endurance title several years previously.

  When the time finally came to put the dress on for real, I could hardly contain the mixed emotions bouncing around my stomach. I felt excited about seeing Brick but terrified that he’d be at the ball with her. I’d tried to call him twice, but each time his mobile had flipped straight to voice mail and I hadn’t left a message. I couldn’t find the right words to express my feelings. I wanted to tell him how I felt. That I was mad that Mae had been there but I was beside myself with worry about his eye. It was a tsunami of anxiety and need that I knew would come out all wrong in a message and do more harm than good. My emotions were overwhelming me, I’d never felt so in need of another person at my side. Well, not since Tim had left, but that was something I didn’t think about anymore. That was something I just couldn’t cope with on top of this new layer of hurt. So each time I called Brick I’d clicked the phone shut in frustration and hoped he’d call me back.

  He hadn’t.

  * * * * *

  In the early evening, I alighted from a limo onto a red carpet outside The Winston Hotel. The Florida heat washed over my shoulders. I had my hair pinned into an elaborate updo and the
air on my skin from my nape right down to my butt felt light and breezy.

  “Carly, Carly Flannigan.”

  I turned to a row of photographers held back by a gold rope.

  “Carly, smile for the Orlando Enquirer,” a bearded guy called, aiming an enormous camera my way.

  I placed a hand on my waist, cocked my hip and smiled demurely. His bulb flashed, twice.

  “Carly, you look great. Over here for It’s Happening Now.” I turned slightly, still in the same pose, and smiled again.

  “And here, over here, Carly, Carly.”

  I looked left and saw a young guy in a green baseball cap with a smaller digital camera.

  “Just for me,” he said with a shrug and a cheeky grin.

  I turned my back and looked over my left shoulder at him. Gave him my best sexy smile as my spine twisted beneath the satin, which gaped ever so slightly, letting a hint of the hot evening air slip down my butt cheeks. He clicked away several times, as did the other reporters.

  “Cool, thanks,” he said, smiling. “And hey, is it true about you and Brick at The Waldorf?”

  My heart sank. So the gossip had spread to Florida, and now that Mae was on the scene it would be even more excruciating to answer questions about something that had finished before it had even started. “I think that’s my business, don’t you?” I replied with as sweet a smile as I could muster.

  Stepping forward, I reached for the arm offered by a doorman and strutted toward the hotel’s revolving door.

  The reporter from the Orlando Enquirer shouted, “We could offer you a great deal on an exclusive, Miss Flannigan. Give us your version of events.”

  I ignored him. It was a relief to step into the cool air-conditioning and search out my seat on the table arrangement board. I was at table six, which was right in the center of the room. Brick, along with his teammates, was at table eight, slightly to the left of mine. There were several blank spaces at his table for their guests. I’d already made the decision not to look for him. At least not obviously. I didn’t want him to know I was jealous if he was there with Mae. I would be, but him knowing that would be excruciating. So I’d prepared myself for the fact he would be there with her. I’d feel like shit but I would have to put on a brave face and cope.

  As I stepped through the grand doorway, the thought of Brick being in the same room I was in made my breath catch in my throat. I tilted my chin and set down my shoulders, determined to hold it together.

  I found table six, sat on a plush chair and took the champagne offered by a waiter.

  “Hi, it’s Carly, right?”

  “Yes.” I turned to my neighbor. It was the swimmer. The one who’d stood behind me at the photo shoot just before Phoenix, Ramrod and Brick hoisted me into the air and scared me half to death. “And you’re Stephen.” I managed a smile. “Stephen Cairns.”

  “Steve, please, it’s great to see you again.” He held up his champagne and clinked the rim of my glass. “This is a great turnout, don’t you think?”

  I nodded. “Yes, let’s hope it makes a load of money.”

  “I’m sure it will. There’s some really cool stuff up for auction. It’s spread out in the next room. There’s a basketball signed by the entire Magic team, my son’s favorite, and Harry Anderson’s engraved dog tag necklace. That would be cool wouldn’t it? A bit of jewelry from the late, great master bowler himself.”

  “Mmm,” I said, sipping my champagne as an image of my favorite sportsman’s secret bit of jewelry hovered before me. Golden bubbles fizzed on my tongue, then I let them slide down my throat like popping candy.

  “And they’re doing telephone bids too, you know, for all the rich people that can’t make it.” Steve grinned and several gold fillings in the back of his mouth winked at me.

  “Hi, hi, this is my seat, can I sit down, do you mind?”

  “No, please, go ahead.” I turned to see who was tapping me on the shoulder.

  It was a mousy lady in a flowery print dress with a matching pink rose in her hair. A string of pearls sat around her neck.

  “I won,” she said, beaming.

  “You won what?” I asked, still smiling politely.

  “I won my ticket.” She sat down, pulled her seat in harder than she needed to and wobbled the table. Crockery and cutlery, glasses and an overstuffed vase of flowers jiggled noisily. “Oops, sorry.” She smiled apologetically around the table then turned back to me. “I won my ticket on the Ray Lenon Show. You know, the one you were on with that hockey player, The Brick. I won, I rang in, gave the answer, Wolf, and the next day the ticket arrived and—” She took a glass of champagne from the waiter, gulped thirstily and carried on, “And, they’ve given me a hotel room here. Can you believe it? Mary Rogers from Cincinnati here with all these famous people and with a big fancy room upstairs.”

  “Well, congratulations, Mary,” I said. “I hope you have a lovely time.”

  “Oh, I already am,” she said, draining the champagne and holding the empty glass up to the waiter. “One of the lovely soccer boys has promised me a dance later. I can’t wait.” She glanced over my shoulder and waggled her fingers by her ear.

  I turned and looked at the table behind me, which held several of the Florida pro soccer team. One of them, older than the others, waved back at Mary, his smile genuine and warm.

  “That’s nice,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, glugging on a fresh glass of bubbly. She leaned in close. “His name is Philip, he used to play but now he’s a coach. His divorce just came through.” She dropped her voice. “His wife ran off with a political writer from Washington apparently. Said Philip was too left wing for her and she didn’t know how she’d been married to him for all these years when their political views were clearly so different.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute,” Mary said with a shake of her head. “She was obviously taken with someone and just had to come up with an excuse other than she wanted a good fuck.”

  My brows rose. Mary looked the sort to bake pecan pie, darn socks and run the local gardening club. The word fuck spilling from her thin pink lips just didn’t seem right.

  “You know,” she said, giving me an exaggerated wink, “a good seeing to in the bedroom, a bit of cock—”

  “Yes, yes,” I interrupted. “I know what you mean.”

  “Sorry.” She pulled her mouth down, took a sip from her just-filled wine, then smiled at a waiter as he set down a fresh lobster salad starter. “I get a bit excited when I’m let out. I have five kids at home, three of them are teenagers now, a help and a hindrance around the house. Timmy and Suzy are twins, they’re six, a bit of a surprise to tell the truth, thought I was done with all that nonsense.”

  “You have twins?” Steve asked, leaning right across me.

  “Yes, they’re six, always on the go,” Mary said, clicking open a gaudy black sequined purse. “Here they are.” She passed over a small photo of two smiling kids, both with mousy hair curled like hers and dressed in neat school uniforms with a gold anchor logo.

  Steve took the photo. “They look like a lot of fun,” he said. “We just found out last week we’re expecting twins.” He handed the photo back with a smile bursting with male pride, as though twins proved his sperm were of extra special strength—two for one.

  “Oh congratulations,” Mary said, her eyes sparkling. “Truly they are a blessing, once, you know, you get over the hard bit, but then again it’s not you having to carry them is it?”

  Steve rubbed a hand over the complaining buttons on his suit jacket. “No, thank goodness, but Ness is coping brilliantly.”

  I speared a thick flake of lobster and popped it in my mouth. It was good, meltingly soft and flavored with a hint of paprika.

  “And where is she tonight?” Mary was asking over my plate. “Your wife, Ness?”

  “Oh she’s with her mom. They’re having a knitting night. Making blankets, sipping iced tea and talking about babies and childbirth.” He raised his bee
r and took a slurp.

  Mary filled her mouth with lobster and lettuce. Chewed madly. “And have you started the nursery yet?”

  I sat back in my chair as Steve described the trauma of painting vertical stripes using masking tape. A plate of grilled chicken and asparagus was set before me. As I tucked in and listened to decorating tips, my mind wandered. It wandered to table eight even though I’d told it not to. Before I knew it I was studying the back of Phoenix’s head. His thick curls licked over his white shirt collar and just touched the tuxedo jacket he wore. Next to him sat his wife, Brooke. I could see her in profile—pretty and smiley in a black velvet number that showed off her voluptuous cleavage. A single diamond sat just below the hollow of her neck and her hair, like mine, was piled high on her head. I watched as Phoenix slipped a hand from her shoulder to the base of her back. He leaned across and said something into her ear then touched his lips to the side of her neck. She turned to him and her eyes melted when she smiled. It was as though time stood still when he was touching her, whispering into her ear. I wanted that. I wanted that heart-stopping, time-stopping moment with Brick. Suddenly it seemed so unfair that my time with him was over before it had really begun.

  My heart lurched and my eyes stung. I blinked, took a deep breath and bit off the end of an asparagus tip. Next to Brooke sat Ramrod. Huge and handsome and eating as though it was his last chance to fill up. Beyond him was Wolf, the new guy, though he didn’t look it. His wide shoulders were relaxed and easy. His face, though sharp and angled, was stress free. He raised a toast to the table then knocked back a bottle of beer.

  I caught my breath as a wave of intense irritation washed over me. Mae French, stunning as always, in salmon pink and a collection of casual but no doubt extortionately expensive jewelry. Hair tousled and messy, but not so much that it didn’t look as if those long blonde locks hadn’t had some kind of expert attention. She had the kind of look no one else could go for and get away with. Cool yet stunning, individual yet effortless. I hated her. I crossed my knife and fork, meal barely eaten, appetite gone.