ONE
Two years later . . .
“So this is just a flying visit, right? A couple of dances and we’re out?”
Isobel’s younger sister, Violet, shot slitted eyes of disgust at Isobel. Granted, Isobel had vowed to make more effort in the Grand Plan: get herself a real, live boyfriend versus the battery-operated one she defaulted to in time of need. But six weeks into the year, and she’d gotten no further than a few awkward online chats.
What are you wearing?
A sports bra and— Hello, hello, are you still there? Oh, fuck off, dickbiscuit.
“You’re never going to get laid with that attitude,” Violet said as they hacked through teeming masses of nubile, tanned, scantily clad bodies packing the floor at Ignite, Chicago’s newest, hottest whatever. Most of these people looked like they’d been shipped in from a Pitbull music video.
When Isobel didn’t respond, Violet stopped and pivoted. “What did I tell you about showing a little skin?”
Isobel looked down at her nightclub ensemble: black leggings and Joan of Arctic fur-lined boots paired with an Eddie Bauer parka over a black turtleneck. She called it her “French cat burglar” look because it threw off a sixties-beatnik-poet vibe, hugged in all the right places on her six-foot-tall frame, and had the added benefit of protecting her against a Chicago winter. She was nothing if not practical.
“This isn’t really a good night to be looking for a man,” she muttered.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. This place is filled with losers who couldn’t get a date and now they’re on the prowl for the leftovers.”
“Like me?” Because she certainly didn’t include Violet in the desperate-dateless-leftovers category. Her sister might be currently without an official boyfriend, but she was keeping a few members of the Rebels hockey team—the team they jointly owned and ran with their elder sister, Harper—on the hook. Not exactly principled, but Violet wasn’t known for her scrupulous attention to the rules.
“Exactly like you!”
Who was Isobel kidding? Satan would be ice-skating to work before she got lucky, which suited her tonight because she really should be at home, replaying game videos in preparation for tomorrow.
Her first coaching gig with the Rebels. So, she was only a consultant, but it would lead to more. She knew it.
“It’s a good thing we’re on the list,” Violet shouted over her shoulder as she elbowed her way through the frenzy with sharp jabs, “because there’s no way we would have gotten in with you looking like South Pole explorer meets South Side gangbanger.”
The list? Now that Isobel thought about it, they had skipped a considerable line along with the serious side eye of the club’s security. Violet looked like she belonged here with her fabulous gold bustier, a black band masquerading as a skirt, and lashings of colorful ink adorning her gleaming olive skin. Really, she fit in anywhere that was cool and dangerous.
They had only recently started hanging out when the requirements of their father’s will threw the formerly estranged half sisters together to manage the team. Two years ago, Isobel hadn’t known of Violet Vasquez’s existence, as dear old Dad had shoved the result of his one-night stand in the Chase family armoire. On Clifford’s death five months ago, Violet had moved from Reno to Chicago and was largely responsible for smoothing over the tension that thickened the air whenever Isobel was in the same room as big sis Harper. Growing up out of Cliff’s shadow, Violet wasn’t burdened by the Chase legacy. She had a way about her, a go-for-broke attitude, that Isobel envied.
“What list?” Isobel asked just as they reached a short stairway leading to a VIP area. “What’s going on, Vi?”
“We’re hanging with Cade and the guys.”
Awesome! A night skirting ethical boundaries with pro hockey players who worked for her.
Violet was already skipping up the stairway littered with bored supermodels, several “wearing” skimpy cropped tops that barely covered their tits. The poor women were either freezing to death or highly aroused, because their nipples popped like pucks against the thin fabric. The letters VESNA blazed from several surgically enhanced chests. Why was that familiar?
A few more steps, and it became clear that the line of women clinging like sex-starved limpets to the stair’s rail was an actual queue with a goal in mind. A mall line for Santa, perhaps, where a deviant Santa was about to have the time of his freakin’ life. And here was Isobel blindly following Violet, who now waved at someone behind the velvet rope at the top of the steps.
Shit.
Isobel’s heart sank to her club-inappropriate boots. She recognized the head elf pulling back the rope, though Alexei Medvedev was more like a crusty goblin.
Vadim Petrov’s right-hand man hadn’t changed much in eight years: his age could still be easily placed at anywhere between forty and sixty. Following some ridiculous feudal custom, the man supposedly owed service in perpetuity to Vadim’s bloodline. He served as cook, porter, alarm clock, and bodyguard, to name just a few of his jobs. No doubt he picked up his charge’s dry cleaning, ushered women out of Vadim’s bed in the early hours, and waxed his boy’s scrotum for that silky, manscaped feel.
If Isobel had thought Alexei might have forgotten her, she was quickly disabused of that notion when he let Violet through but placed his Russian solidity in Isobel’s path. Seemed she was persona non grata again. They sized each other up, and Isobel was happy to see that she was still taller than him, her six feet besting Alexei by a good four inches. But he made up for it in squat, torpedo-shaped bulk. She was at a clear disadvantage—he could easily push her down the stairs.
He looked like that was at the top of his to-do list.
“What’s up, Igor?” He’d loved it when she called him that in olden times.
Wondering about the holdup, Violet turned and grabbed her arm. “Hey, she’s with me, tipo.”
After a few seconds, Alexei stood back, his soulless shark eyes boring into her. All he was missing was the two-fingered prong gesture of I’m watching you. Fine, they understood each other.
Moving forward into the crowded room—huh, not so exclusive after all—Isobel felt her skin prickle with something like foreboding. As if it knew something she didn’t.
She turned and whoosh! Sure, she didn’t need all that breath in her lungs anyway. Vadim Petrov sat on a chocolate velvet couch, wearing a sharp suit, an icy stare, and a half-naked blonde.
The man had made a bargain with the devil, and the devil had yet to call in his marker. Undeniably beautiful, he sported mountain-high cheekbones that pronounced his descent from an aristocratic lineage, ice-blue eyes as clear as the Baltic Sea, and full lips that miraculously softened the sharp angles of his face. Coal-black hair fell over his brow and past his jawline, its silkiness appearing as otherworldly untouchable as its owner. And don’t even get her started on his sculpted, tatted body—currently covered up, thank Gretzky—which he proudly flaunted on billboards as often as his numerous sponsorship deals demanded.
Two days ago, the Rebels had traded him in from Quebec. The plan was to use him on the left wing, but he wasn’t quite game fit owing to a recurring knee injury. This gave him plenty of time to indulge his other interests: clubbing and manwhoring.
For the briefest moment she wished she didn’t look like a lank-haired, parka-sporting schlub the first time in years she’d been less than ten feet away from him. But then she shot titanium into her spine, cocked her hip a la fuck it, and sidled up to Violet.
Cade “Alamo” Burnett, one of the Rebels’ defensemen, had just kissed Violet on the cheek and looked like he wanted to lean into Isobel, but he seemed to change his mind at the last moment. Not a problem. Isobel was all about boundaries.
“Hey, take off your coat, Iz,” Vi said.
Isobel felt too warm, too cold, and mighty uncomfortable. “Not staying long.”
“Izzz . . .”
“Oh, okay. Keep your bustier on.” As she unzipped her parka, she was surprised to feel a tug. After a few seconds struggling with it (Uh, that’s mine . . . I know, I’m trying to . . . back off, lady) she realized that the woman behind her was actually a coat check person and not a parka thief.
Isobel really should not be allowed out in public.
She hoped Vadim wasn’t watching. Oh, who cares what he thinks?
Apparently her eighteen-year-old self did, because that’s what she’d reverted to. That loser’s traitorous gaze couldn’t help itself, and when it landed on the Russian again, Isobel was surprised to find him watching her with mild amusement. That was different. As a nineteen-year-old, humor had been about as foreign to him as a PB&J sandwich.
A guy who had “PR clown” written all over him was taking a photo of the blonde as she inched her hand inside Vadim’s lapel, apparently needing the warmth only those muscles could provide. Poor thing, forced to freeze her ass off at the club. Two seconds later, the blonde was replaced by a redhead who appeared to have similar body heat problems. Santa aka Vadim whispered in her ear, probably inquiring if she’d been naughty or, you know, extra naughty.
The tabloids called him the Czar of Pleasure, a man as well known for his exploits in the bedroom as on the ice. Oh, the things Isobel could tell about this guy’s erotic talents.
Eyes bright with admiration, Cade looked around the VIP room plastered with signs for Vesna, which Isobel now recalled was a high-end Russian vodka. “Man, I want a vodka deal.”
“You’d be lucky if you got a deal fronting Budweiser Clydesdale piss, Alamo,” came a slow drawl behind them.
Remy DuPre, the Rebels’ center straight from the heart of the bayou, appeared bearing the most froufrou drink Isobel had ever seen. Blue with a big chunk of pineapple in the center.
“Is that for Harper?” Isobel asked, knowing it wasn’t, because her sister wouldn’t be caught dead attending a party with the players even if her boyfriend’s presence gave her a good excuse. Banging one of them is bad enough, Harper was fond of saying. I need to at least give the illusion of labor–management boundaries.
Remy stared at his drink in disgust. “I’m just here to make sure these boys get home by curfew.”
Isobel hid her smile. She liked how Remy had stepped up to the position of elder statesman since his arrival four months ago. She also liked how Remy was a calming influence on her older sister. He could have bailed on the Rebels when he had a shot at trading out, but he didn’t because he loved Harper and needed her to know that in the clearest terms.
A pang of envy bit into Isobel’s heart, but she breathed it away. She wasn’t looking for the love her sister had found with Remy, but she wouldn’t say no to the obvious fireworks that lit up their bed. Not that it would be happening here.
Excusing herself, she headed over to the bar set off in an alcove. One drink, and she was out. She eyed the offerings behind the broad-shouldered bartender: Vesna vodka as far as the eye could see. A plastic-encased menu listed the cocktail options: Vesna Driller, Vesna on the Beach, Vesna Slap ’n’ Tickle . . . you get the idea.
The bartender, who was cute in a swipe-right kind of way, caught her eye.
“Hey,” she said, pinning on her I’m-dateable-let’s-practice smile. “So what’s in the Vesna Bomber?”
“Vodka, grenadine, and passion fruit,” she heard behind her in a tone that could freeze a Cossack’s ball sac.
Here we go. She turned, the first thing that popped into her head skipping her filter and landing right on her tongue. “Sounds girly.”
Yep, pretty proud.
No one would ever describe Vadim Petrov as “girly.” Before her stood the most masculine streak of cells Isobel had ever seen, and she lived in a world teeming with machismo.
“Thought you hated vodka,” she said.
“I do.” A negligent wave of his hand said this was all beyond his control. Who was he, a mere multimillion-dollar spokesman, to counteract stereotypes about Russians?
The gesture might have been casual, but his stare was anything but. “I was sorry to hear about your father.”
“Oh. Thanks.” It still gnawed, less sharp now but with a constant awareness of the void. Clifford Chase had been driven, difficult, and demanding. He’d expected great things from her, so her failure to make a career in the pros had strained their relationship.
She missed him like crazy.
Vadim had lost his own father about eighteen months ago, and she opened her mouth to offer similar condolences, but they got stuck in her throat with all the other things she longed to say. He’d had a difficult relationship with the elder Petrov, a billionaire businessman with rumored ties to the Russian mob, and a man who didn’t want Vadim to play hockey in the United States. Better he expend his athletic energies for the glory of Mother Russia. Sergei Petrov got his wish—his son enjoyed a star-making turn in the Kontinental Hockey League after his visit to Chicago all those years ago.
Isobel might’ve had something to do with that.
The silence sat up between them, the tension expanding. Vadim seemed to be expecting her to say something, so she happily obliged.
“How’s your knee?”
Not that. His eyebrow shot up. “Improving.”
She needed to tiptoe around his ego. “There are extra drills you could do to help with your speed. Get you back to how you were pre-injury.”
“I’m sure the team will do what is necessary.”
“Yes, we will.”
Gotcha! That eyebrow became one with his hairline.
She cleared her throat. No nerves, now. “Moretti has assigned me to give you personalized attention. We’ll meet for an hour before each regular practice and work on your skating.”
Now that injury had forced her out of the game, coaching was all she had left. This morning Dante Moretti, the newly hired Rebels’ general manager, had appointed her as a skating consultant with one charge: to get Vadim Petrov into good enough shape so they could qualify for the playoffs in two months. She’d planned to drop this knowledge on the man himself after tomorrow’s team practice, but hey, no time like the present.
Now she waited for his predictable explosion.
“There is nothing wrong with my skating,” he grated.
“There’s always room for improvement,” she said with unreasonable cheer. Kill the boy with happy. “Right now, you’re placing too much weight on your uninjured leg, and it’s thrown off your motion. We’ll focus on—”
“Nothing. I can work with Roget, the regular skating coach.”
“He doesn’t have time to give you the extra attention you need. It’s typical for teams to hire consultants, especially for players who are underperforming.”
And there was that famous Russian scowl. L’il ol’ Vaddy was a touch sensitive about his diminished capacity since that knee injury had sidelined him for half the season. Having battled a career-killing injury herself, she understood what he was going through. The doubts, the questioning. The fear. But unlike her, he was in a position to get back to full strength as a pro.
He snorted. “You are not just any consultant, though, are you, Isobel? You are a part owner of the team. You are Clifford Chase’s genetic legacy. And even after his death, you are getting your way.”
She understood she’d have to get used to slings and arrows, accusations of using her father’s name and her position as owner to get a coaching gig. But that last dig about getting her way? As if she had done that before.
“I know what I’m doing, Vadim.”
“Do you?” He leaned in, using his height to overwhelm her. “You can no longer play at the pro level, yet you insist on playing games. With me. And not for the first time. Once your selfishness screwed with my career—”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Isn’t it? Three years—” He cut off, his anger a cloud that practically stung her eyes. “All because you put me in your crosshairs, Isobel. Well, forgive me if I would rather not trust my professional future to you.”
She swallowed, her cheeks heating furiously. Of course, he would see it that way. She had been young, immature, more sheltered than the average eighteen-year-old. All she knew was hockey. It was her life, and then Vadim had skated into it and she’d seen something else. Her eyes had opened to beauty and passion and—hell, she’d been a teenage nightmare.
He was so close, close enough for her to view rings of blue-green fire around his irises as well as a smudge of lipstick tinting his jaw. It was hard being Vadim Petrov.
Regularly bombarded by photos of him in magazines and on billboards over the years, she wanted to think it was easier to look at him objectively now. As a perfectly formed machine of mass and muscle. As a chiseled Renaissance sculpture that was cool to the touch. She wanted to think it, but she remembered too much about the last time she had been this close to him.
Her infatuation. Her embarrassment. Her shame.
She should apologize for how it all went down because it would make things easier.
Well, not exactly easier.
They had to work together, put aside their differences for the sake of the team. But she didn’t like his assumptions about how she’d landed this job.
Or maybe she didn’t like that she half-agreed with him.
Doubts that she had right completely on her side put her on the defensive. “These late nights at the club will have to stop.” She curved her gaze around his broad shoulder to the ever-increasing line of women waiting to sit on his lap. “You’re going to need your sleep for the extra practice you have to put in.”
He didn’t respond to that, but if he had, it was easy to guess what he’d say. What every athlete would say.
I know my limits. I know what my body can take.
Athletes were consummate liars.
Vadim leaned in again, smelling of fame, privilege, and raw sex appeal. Discomfort at his proximity edged out the hormonal sparks dancing through her body.
“Does Moretti know that we have history? Does he know you are the last person I wish to work with?”
Before she could respond, someone squealed, “Vadim!” A blond, skinny, buxom someone who was now wrapping herself around Vadim in a very possessive manner. “You said you’d be back with a dwinkie!”
A dwinkie?
Drawing back, Vadim circled the squealer’s waist and pulled her into his hard body. “Kotyonok, I did not mean to be so long.” He dropped a kiss on her lips, needing to bend considerably because she was just so darn petite! Not like big-boned Isobel, who could have eaten this chick and her five supermodel Playmates for a midmorning snack. A group of them stood off to the side, clearly waiting for the signal to start the orgy. And Vadim clearly wanted to give it, except he had to deal with the annoying fly in the sex ointment.
Why did the lumberjack hotties always go for twigs instead of branches? Did it make them feel more virile to screw a pocket-sized Barbie?
Yep, feeling like a schlub.
But he didn’t need to know that. All he needed to know was that she had the power to get him back on competitive ice. This was her best shot at making a difference and getting the Rebels to a coveted playoff spot. Vadim Petrov and his butt-hurt feelings would not stand in her way.
“Do you need to talk about it, Russian?”
She infused as much derision into the question as possible, so that the idea of “talking about it” made him sound a touch less than manly. Big, bad, brick house Russians didn’t need to talk about the women who done them wrong.
“There is nothing to talk about,” he uttered in that voice that used to send Siberian shivers down her back. Now? Nothing more than a Muscovian flurry.
“Excellent!” Super-scary cheerful face. “Regular practice tomorrow is at ten, so I’ll see you on the ice at nine a.m. Don’t be late.”
Pretty happy with her exit line, she walked away.
Far too easy.
A brute hand curled around hers and pulled her to the other side of the bar, out of the sight line of most of the VIP room. She found her back against a wall—literally and figuratively—as two hundred and thirty pounds of Slavic muscle loomed over her.
He still held her hand.
If she weren’t so annoyed, she’d think it was kind of nice.
She yanked it away. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Who am I?” he boomed, and she prayed it was rhetorical. Unfortunately, no. “I am Vadim Petrov. Leading goal scorer for my first two years in the NHL. Winner of both the Kontinental and the Gagarin Cups. A man not to be trifled with. And you are who exactly? The daughter of a hockey great who was not so great when it came to running a team. The woman who can no longer play, yet thinks she can offer ‘tips’ to me. To me! You may have pedigree, Isobel, but there is nothing I can learn from you.”
This arrogant, douchewaffle piece of shit!
She straightened, pulling herself millimeters from the wall, which had the effect of putting her eye to eye with him. Or eye to chin. Close enough.
Too close.
He was breathing hard, and so was she, the lift of her breasts teasing, tantalizing brushes against his chest.
“One conversation and you’re out of breath, Vaddy? We’re going to need to work on your conditioning.”
More of the dark and broody. More of the nipple pops against her sweater. Stop being so Russian, Russian!
“My conditioning regimen is fine.”
A glance over to the bar found “Dwinkie” biting her lip in concern, checking in with her gal pals, and possibly planning an extraction with SEAL Team: Boobs Are Our Weapons.
“Getting your exercise with puck bunnies and Vesna groupies doesn’t count.” Isobel slid her hand between their bodies and brushed his abs. Good God, hard as ice and hot as sin. “As I suspected, a bit flabby with all your time off. We’ll take care of that with your recovery program.”
He stepped back, as though burned by her touch, and she willed away the ping of hurt in her chest. At least she knew where they stood on that issue.
“I will discuss this with Moretti and Coach Calhoun tomorrow.”
“You do that, but do it early, because I’m still expecting you in full gear at nine a.m. And, Vadim? I’d suggest you quit with the trail of women looking to sit on your . . . knee. We don’t want to weaken it or any other parts of your anatomy. Keep that up and you won’t even have a shot at Dancing with the Stars.”
Then with the reflexes that once accorded her MVP status on the ice, she escaped his orbit and headed back into the crowd.