ZOE

“Why did we decide to drive again?” I demand two hours later. My legs burn from hobbling in my stilettos for ten blocks. My feet, though I’m too scared to look, have no doubt been torn open and are spilling blood all over the New York City sidewalk—I should have stuck with my sneakers from the morning.

Andre barely spares me a glance as he keeps pace. He’s so tall that his long legs naturally bring him farther, but every few yards he lets the gap close between us again. “I hate flying.”

I forgot about that phobia of his. It’s tough to imagine that the big, bad Andre Beaumont turns scared at the thought of being thirty-thousand feet in the sky. “We could have taken the train,” I tell him, pushing my legs to move faster.

We’re late for our appointment with the editor of Fame.

And, according to my cell phone’s GPS, we’re still four blocks away.

At this rate, my feet will probably snap off as soon as we get in front of the building.

“We’ll be fine,” Andre says, then expels a bundle of curses when my ankle wobbles and I go down.

He catches me about the waist, his arm strong and muscular, and it takes every bit of willpower not to beg him to carry me the rest of the way to Fame’s offices.

“Zoe?” he says, lifting me back up onto my feet. “You good?”

I test my ankle, resisting the urge to wince when a sting flares in the bone. Not wanting to appear a wimp, I shrug off his grasp and wave my hand at him. “I’m good, all good.”

He peers at my face, his dark eyes roving over my features. “You look green.”

“It’s my complexion,” I tell him, brushing away his worry. “I’m naturally olive-toned.”

“You’re Irish. The fact that your dad owns an Italian restaurant doesn’t count.”

I open my mouth to deliver a hot retort, only to realize that I don’t have one. He’s totally right.

Over his shoulder, he flashes me one of his rare grins and then beckons me with his hands. “Give me your bag, Miss Italian, before you actually wipe out and I’m not quick enough to save you.”

Oouut. He’s showing off his Canadian side again.

I don’t put up a fuss and hand him my purse. Without thinking twice, he lifts the strap over his shoulder and continues to march down W. 57^th Avenue, like he totally isn’t rocking a hot pink, faux leather bag.

I trail after him, attempting to lift my feet in a way that doesn’t send spikes of pain shooting through the sole of my foot each time the heel of my stiletto meets concrete. “Aren’t hockey players supposed to have quick hands?” I call out to him.

Andre turns around, his arms spreading wide in a this-is-what-you-get pose. “Zo, we both know that I have quick hands.”

That he does. Coming from a place of personal experience, I can totally attest to the fact that Andre does, in fact, have quick hands.

Thankfully, he takes pity on me and my lack of physical strength by doubling back and taking hold of my arm. I spend the last three blocks cursing high-heeled shoes, hockey players, and my own ambition to reclaim my position as a respected public relations coordinator.

We draw to a stop just inside the rotating glass doors of our final stop. I’m panting, totally out of shape, while Andre only looks like he’s been out for a stroll. It’s tremendously unfair.

One glance at my reflection in the mirror behind the front receptionist’s desk, and . . . Oh. My. God. I look wild. Absolutely wild.

And sweaty.

I feel my humiliation seep from my body and splatter on the floor.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the desk asks politely when we approach her. She cuts me a glance, and there’s no way that I miss her brows lifting in horror.

I’m a sight to be had. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her to stop judging me, but Andre cuts in.

“We’re a few minutes late for an appointment with the editor for Fame magazine.” He casually slings my hot-pink purse to his other arm and extends his hand. “Andre Beaumont,” he greets in the most pleasant voice I’ve ever heard from him. “We had some unfortunate issues with parking.”

The woman’s expression turns starstruck at Andre’s introduction. “It’s . . . uh, we don’t really have parking here in New York City. It’s sort of a thing.”

Andre presses a palm to the lip of the desk and leans forward. “Mhmm, we realized that a bit too late. Unfortunately, we’ve just driven in from Boston, and since it took longer than expected . . . ”

“Oh!” She visibly jumps in her seat. “You want to go upstairs.”

“That’d be nice.”

This from Andre, who has quite literally ditched his moodiness for flirtation.

The receptionist’s brown eyes land on me. “Are you his sister?”

Andre lets out a choking noise beside me.

Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I look a fright, and I’m finally coming to accept that my dream of being respected is slipping away again. Maybe it’s because of five other million things that I refuse to think about, but I slip my hand over Andre’s arm and murmur, “I’d hope not! You don’t kiss your sisters.”

The arm under my hand stiffens, signaling Andre’s surprise. When he tries to pull away, I clutch tighter, refusing to let him go, and widen my smile to scary proportions. “Honey,” I say sweetly, “shouldn’t we be heading upstairs?”

He responds with silence, and I risk a peek up at his face. Oh man. He is not pleased.

In a voice that’s tightly leashed, he growls, “Absolutely. Honey.”

I pat his hand and turn back to the receptionist. “What floor do we need?”

Her gaze darts between Andre and I. “Um, the twenty-sixth.”

“Brilliant.” I give a little finger-wave and tug Andre along.

Each step toward the elevator echoes loudly in the marble-floored lobby. The heels of my stilettos puncture the tile, but it’s Andre’s personal vibration that’s off the charts.

We wait side by side for the elevator to descend to the lobby level. I glance at his reflection in the mirrored doors. A pulse ticks to life in his jaw. With his free hand, he tugs at his left earlobe.

Uh-oh.

With a ping! the elevator doors split open, and a group of businessmen in classy suits spill out.

One of them stutters to a stop at the sight of Andre, his mouth gaping open. “Holy shit, man!” He nudges his buddy in the side. “Holy shit, it’s King Sin Bin.”

Andre tugs his left ear again.

The man’s friend reacts appropriately, and echoes, “Holy shit. Dude.”

I’m not sure to whom the “dude” is directed, but Andre apparently seems to think it’s for him because his face adopts what I would consider a “scary” expression—lip curling and everything—and the men scurry off, their proverbial tails tucked between their legs.

“Seriously?” I demand, pointing to their retreating backs. “See? That’s what gets you in trouble, Andre. You can’t just go terrifying people like that and expect for it all to be just peach—”

“Get in the elevator.”

At his high-handed tone, I arch a brow and fold my arms over my chest. “Excuse me?”

His dark eyes flirt over me. “Zoe, get in the elevator.”

No way is he pulling this sort of stunt. I stare at him unwaveringly. “No.”

His big shoulders jolt with surprise, and I actually see the moment he decides to flip the script. The harsh lines of his mouth relax, and the creases fanning out from his eyes ease. In a cajoling tone that would totally manipulate a weaker person, he murmurs, “Please, honey. Get in the elevator.”

My ears twitch at the endearment. It was one thing to say it in front of the receptionist. It’s another thing entirely to say it away from other people, when it’s just us . . .

The elevator pings again, and this time I step through. I don’t do it for him; I do it for me. Because whatever showdown that’s about to happen has been a long time coming, and it’s probably for the best if we don’t have witnesses.

Andre follows behind me.

We take our respective sides at either end of the small box.

Slowly, like in a bad B-rated horror movie, the doors slide closed until they click and shut us in. I spare Andre a single glance, then release a breath as I jab at the button for floor twenty-six.

The elevator surges up.

I hear, rather than see, Andre set my purse on the ground. My chin tips his way, my eyes narrowing on his muscular frame.

“Are you over being a high-handed jerk?” I ask, shifting slightly so my back presses against the elevator wall. My hands find purchase on either side of my hips on the wooden railing. “Because I can tell you right now that it is going to be a long way home if you keep up the Mr. Testosterone act.”

The elevator pings, pings, pings quietly with each floor we hit.

“I think we have a problem.”

At Andre’s confession, I shrug my shoulders nonchalantly and say, “It’s called ‘ego.’ I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

Andre comes closer. There’s not much room in this elevator, especially not for someone of his size, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at him and shoving my butt up against the wall.

“Andre,” I say, “you’re kind of freaking me out.”

His tongue touches the center of his full bottom lip, and that one caress sends heat down to places I wish it wouldn’t. “I’m freaking myself out,” he answers.

Ping.

Ping.

Ping.

“Is this where I pretend that you took a crazy pill when I wasn’t looking? Just so you know, there’s nowhere for you to store my body in here. You can’t get away with murder.” My breath hitches at his intense expression. I know that look. The last time I saw that look, my pencil skirt ended up on the ground, and my panties landed inconspicuously on the doorknob to the Red Wings’ laundry room facility.

Andre slowly shakes his head. When the words I suspect are coming actually leave his mouth, my knees nearly crumble beneath me.

“I need to get you out of my system. You’re driving me insane. Fuck, you’ve been driving me insane all day. Forcing me to talk, wearing that sexy skirt. Pretending to fall in the street.”

A surprised laugh escapes me. “I did almost fall, actually,” I whisper.

“Almost,” he returns, just as softly, “but I saved you.”

The words yank at my heart. “You don’t save people, Andre. You plow into them and take what you need, just like you do on the ice.”

“Maybe I need you, have you thought of that?”

He’s killing me. He’s actually killing me, and now I’m thinking the impossible: would it be so bad if I let him touch me? But we’ve been there before. We’ve been there, and it didn’t work out, and it’s quite likely it wouldn’t work out now either. There’s too much bad blood between us.

“It’s been a week.”

In a voice husky with insanity—definitely insanity—he says, “And we have three more.”

“You said no sex.”

“I know.” His big body closes in on mine, his hands going to the wall on either side of my head. Immediately, I catch the scent of his cologne and it smells delicious. Like sandalwood mixed with fresh laundry. “You’re dating your penthouse-owning millionaire. I’m dating . . . women. We both like our lives, but maybe we just need to take care of this attraction. Or, at least, prove that it doesn’t exist once and for all.”

Does he really think it’s as simple as that? My chin tips back so that I can meet his glittering black eyes. “This isn’t a good idea.”

His gaze falls to my mouth. “I know that too.”

I curl my fingers around the railing, and try not to notice that in doing so, I inadvertently thrust my breasts forward. Against his chest, like a complete hussy.

I try one last time to hold my ground, to stand strong against the man who wrecked me and then finished me off by leaving. “I don’t like you.”

My voice isn’t quite steady. It isn’t all that forceful.

And Andre takes notice. His hand, the one to the right of my head, shifts over to lightly touch my face. The pads of his fingers are rough, abrasive against my skin, and, God, I love it.

“I don’t like you either.”

For some reason, I don’t think he’s telling the truth.

I worry that I’m not either.

My eyes flutter shut when his fingers gently trace the slope of my nose, and when his thumb brushes over my lips, I release a shuddered sigh.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he tells me softly. “I’m going to kiss you, and I’m going to make damn sure you go home thinking about it tonight. And then we’re going to return to our lives that we both like, and get back to what matters.”

My eyes snap open at his crude words, just as the elevator jolts to a halt and the doors slide open.

Get back to what matters? Is he serious?

With a hand to his (ahem) incredibly hard chest, I give a good shove. My ankle protests when I swoop down low to gather my discarded purse, and with a sharp tug at my skirt and my loose-fitting pink top, I put myself back in order.

Or, as in order as I can be, considering that Andre was less than thirty seconds away from kissing me.

I don’t turn around when he says my name the first time.

I don’t turn around when he says it the second time.

On the third time, I whirl back, thankful for the fact that the elevator has exited into a quiet hallway. I strut toward him, all business. Yes, I add a sway to my hips. Yes, I come at him with fingers pointing and at the ready.

I jab him once in the chest, and I’m not surprised when the flesh beneath my attack doesn’t budge.

He’s as hard as stone.

Now that I think about it, his heart is the same way.

Andre catches my wrist, his gaze dipping down to search my face in overt confusion. “What did I say?”

Unbelievable. See? This is why the man is enemy number one in the hockey world—he’s completely incapable of playing nice with anyone. I yank my hand out from his grasp. “Let me put it this way for you, Andre.” I point at him, then swivel my finger to point at myself. “This? Us? Never happening. You laid down the ground about no sex, and I’m completely fine with that. I don’t have sex with men who think that I don’t matter.”

Just like that, his expression shuts down. “Zoe—Zo—you know that I didn’t mean it like that.”

My hands go to my hips. “Then tell me how you meant it.”

His eyes go wide, and he reaches up to rub the back of his neck with one hand. “Jesus, Zoe, I have no idea. I’m just saying that it’d probably do us some good. Get the sexual attraction out of the way so we can live our lives.”

Fury heats my words when I counter, “I am living my life, Andre. I’ve been living my life since the day you screwed me in a goddamn laundry room, and then never spoke to me again.”

Silence meets my words. It’s the first time either of us has directly mentioned our past, and the awkwardness is palpable. I almost wish I could snatch them back. Except, no—no, I will not. He can’t just walk about as if nothing ever happened.

In a voice I wish wasn’t so testy, I mutter, “Nothing to say to that?”

His hand leaves his neck to scrape over the lower half of his face. “Let’s not do this here.”

My eyes narrow. “Are we going to talk about it on the way home?”

I mentally scoff. Home—like we share the same house, the same life, the same heart.

Utterly. Ridiculous.

Andre tugs on his ear. “Maybe we should just forget—”

Over the ringing in my ears, all I hear are excuses. I throw up a hand and his mouth clamps shut. “You know what? You’re right—it doesn’t matter. Not what happened then, or what happened after that. I don’t care. But don’t kiss me, Andre.” My heart pounds with adrenaline; it pounds so loud that all I can hear is the blood thundering in my head. “Don’t kiss me today, and don’t kiss me tomorrow.”

I won’t survive another round with him between the sheets. Not if he decides to up and leave me again, just like he did last time—not that we were anywhere between a set of sheets a year ago.

But as he stares at me resolutely, with an expression that borders on hollow, I can’t help but wonder if I’m making the right decision. If I’ve even read him correctly.

I remind myself as we silently head toward Fame’s office that this is for the best. Andre is a client—my client. I can’t go back down that road to temptation again. Not even if I’m tempted.

Not even if, for a few minutes today, I remembered the old him, the old us.

I have to be strong, because if I’m not, Andre Beaumont will use me and spit me back out when he’s done. Of that I have no doubt.