Chapter 1

UP UNTIL ABOUT TEN minutes ago, Ford Callaghan would never have dreamed of eavesdropping on a private conversation. True, his grandmother was known to leave a room telling people to argue loudly so she didn’t have to strain herself, but she was from the trashier side of the family, and Ford’s mom had raised him better than that. However, all bets were off when the conversation was about oral sex.

Or, more particularly, how the entire male species knew jack about it.

Only when he rolled his shoulders and discovered he was so flat against the back of the balcony sofa he could’ve melted into it did he realize that maybe he had more of Granny Tate in him after all. Something else struck him too: he had an opportunity not usually afforded to men. Didn’t he owe it to his tribe to learn where every man had supposedly been going wrong?

“He called himself a cunning linguist,” one of the women said, her voice carrying clearly from the adjoining hotel room balcony. “With a straight face.”

Her balcony mates—two of ’em—let loose with sympathy chuckles.

“At least he knew the terminology. When I suggested the stockbroker take a visit downtown, he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.”

“So not cunnilingual, then?”

“Barely monolingual.” There was something familiar about this woman’s voice. Girlish and musical, like Marilyn Monroe. “What about you, Addy?”

Ford perked up at the mention of that name. Addy. For the last ten minutes, hers was the voice of the three women that pleasurably twisted his insides. Quieter than the others, she spoke with a smoky rasp. He didn’t recognize it like he did Marilyn’s, but something within him sensed an affinity.

“My ex would need a GPS to find a clit. And knowing him, he’d argue that the directions were all wrong anyway because they were given in a woman’s voice.”

Their laughter covered Ford’s own low chuckle of appreciation.

“But there’s nothing better than a guy who’s not afraid to get down in the trenches,” Addy continued. “Who eats you out like he plans to put it on his résumé as a marketable skill.”

Ford shifted in his seat, carnal warmth flushing his veins at her plain speaking. He wondered what she looked like. He had it in his head she was a dusky-eyed brunette with lush waves falling over her shoulders, long enough to reach the rosy tips of her full, high breasts. That hair would brush against his chest as she prowled down his body, demonstrating her own marketable skills—

He raised his soda to his lips and took a sip to cool the hell down.

The conversation was continuing as if that brief visit to Ford’s Fantasy Land had never occurred. Kinda rude, ladies.

“Addy, we’re going to have to get you back out there. You’re thirty-two, but you act like you’re ninety-two. Guilt-free orgasms, that’s what you need.”

So, six years older than Ford, not some Girls Gone Wild coed. He liked that. And that get-you-back-out-there comment was the kind of thing said to a woman who’d been out of the game for a while. Maybe the ex with the X-marks-the-clit aversion had done a number on her. Or maybe she’d been wasting her time on men who couldn’t appreciate her.

If Ford was sure of one thing, it was that a woman like this would find untold levels of appreciation in his bed.

Mental headshake. As the star right winger with the Cup-winning New Orleans Cajun Rajuns, Ford wasn’t exactly hurting for female company. Four weeks ago, they’d pulled it out by winning the final game of the series against the New York Spartans. That night he was drowning in offers to keep those good times rolling, but he’d decided against going for a swim. At twenty-six, he was a bit young to be hanging up his condoms, yet the idea of another meaningless fuck with another meaningless puck bunny held little appeal.

Doing the Cup tour in his hometown of Chicago, he’d thought it might clarify his thinking. Something was missing. He ached for—shit, he didn’t know what. A connection, which sounded pretty freakin’ sappy. The day after tomorrow, Ford would take the Cup to visit his junior club, the youth hockey team of the Chicago Rebels, one of the two big franchises in the city. Rebels fans might be bitter about not even making it to the division playoffs, but Ford still got plenty of love from his hometown despite hanging his skates in New Orleans.

“I know, I know,” Addy murmured. Yep, they were on a first-name basis now. “Every guy takes one look and immediately makes up his mind. I just want to meet someone without all the games and preconceptions.”

“That’s why you should come to my dinner party tomorrow. I have just the guy,” said the woman with the familiar voice. It really niggled that he couldn’t place it.

Addy groaned, and though Ford knew it was a groan of frustration, all he could hear in it was pleasure. Specifically, the pleasure he’d provide her, given the opportunity.

“The bean counter?” Addy asked. “Tell me, is a combover involved?”

More laughter, then: “I’d never do that to you. It’s more of a . . . creative Mohawk.”

This sent them all into raucous hoots that were cut short when the Marilyn sound-alike commented that it was late and she had a young stud waiting for her at home. Sarcasm noted. Two minutes later, the party had broken up and the balcony was quiet again.

Disappointment settled over him like a rain-weighted cloud. Those flash reveals of the lady psyche hadn’t satisfied his erotic curiosity or nudged him any closer to figuring out what women wanted. Or what Addy wanted . . . beyond an enthusiastic tongue. Was she staying in the room next door—and would she be willing to educate a clueless jock on the finer points of the female orgasm?

Oh, the places your dirty mind will go, Killer.

Smiling ruefully at his idiocy, he checked his phone, remembering now that he had turned it off completely as soon as the locker-room conversation next door had turned shockingly intimate. That said it all right there, didn’t it? Not wanting to risk even the lowest vibratory buzz, he’d made a conscious decision to remain hidden in the shadows like a creeper. Nice.

A text from his brother Jackson: Marcy wants to know if lasagna is okay for dinner on Friday.

Familiar threads of guilt panged his chest. He would be staying with his brother and his family in Bridgeport on Chicago’s South Side the day after tomorrow. What he hadn’t told them—what he hadn’t told anyone—was that he’d arrived in town a couple days early. He wanted to hit Paulie’s grave without his brother’s recriminatory glances or the media latching on to the story of the Callaghan boys, all destined for greatness until it turned to shit one rainy night on I-90.

Plenty of time to feel like crap in the bosom of his family.

He turned the phone over on the side table, unbidden thoughts of the sultry-voiced goddess ensuring his wicked hard-on still raged. Christ, he hadn’t sported that much wood in forever. The woman’s voice had done that. Addy’s voice.

What would she say if he knocked on her door—assuming it was her door?

What would he say?

I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation and how you’re looking for a guy who won’t play games. Who knows his way around a woman’s body. Can tongue-fuck all night long. Bonus: a full head of glorious hair, no creative Mohawks here. A veritable salad.

Yeah, that’d go over well. You’re an idiot, Callaghan.

He stood, the throb in his dick lessening as the reality of the situation crowded out his fantasy. Nice while it lasted. Resigned to a lonely night with his right hand and the memory of his neighbor’s voice for company, he gripped the balcony door and slid it back.

A husky sound echoed in the still of the night, so quiet that for a moment he imagined it was in his head.

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Eavesdropper?”