Game On

She watched him polish off the last of the largest plate of enchiladas she’d ever seen.

“What was it for you?” he asked when he’d swallowed. “Your ‘aha’ moment.”

She smiled at him. “One day I’ll tell you. But today we’re focusing on you.”

“One day I hope you’ll tell me a lot of things.” His voice was warm, intimate. She felt the pull of attraction so strongly she knew she was lost.

There was a beat of silence. Their gazes stayed locked. Then she forced herself to pull them back to the reason for their lunch. “Why do you play hockey?” she asked him.

He looked at her as though this were some kind of test question. “Because it’s fun.”

“Good. That’s excellent. That’s exactly why you should play a game. What do you like best about it?”

He reached for the basket of tortilla chips and chose one. “I like the game itself. Strategy, when a play works, scoring a goal, but most of all I like the camaraderie. After a game we’ll have a beer in the dressing room and talk about stuff. Joke around.” He put the chip in his mouth. Crunched down.

“Male bonding.”

“Yeah.”

He chomped more chips. She got the feeling that if he’d known her better, he’d have reached for the half of her salad that she hadn’t been able to finish.

“All right. Here’s your homework for next week.”

“Will it give me writer’s cramp?”

“No. I want you to listen for those messages we were talking about earlier. If you can find the source, then we’re going to be close to improving your performance.”

“Okay.” He scooped the last three chips out of the basket, swooped them through the remains of the salsa.

“And I’m going to give you a couple of mantras.”

“Couple of what?” A bright red drop of sauce sploshed on the table as he halted the chips a couple of inches from his mouth.

“Mantras. Affirmations. Statements you repeat many times throughout the day, especially right before you play. She pulled a notebook and pen from her bag. Spoke aloud as she wrote.

“First one—it’s okay to win. Second—I am allowed to win. Third—hockey is fun. I love it and don’t take it, or myself, too seriously.”

“Oh, the guys are going to love hearing me mutter that crap before every game.”

“You can repeat it silently.” She watched him fiddle with the ceramic donkey salt and pepper shakers. “Adam.” She waited until he met her gaze. “You have to trust me.”

“I do or we wouldn’t be here.” His eyes continued to stare into hers and she felt warmth kindle in her belly. She saw his desire for her, felt her own reflected. To her consternation, she dropped her gaze first. “Good,” she said briskly.

When they emerged into the parking lot, he walked her to her car. It was kind of sweet and old-fashioned and she loved it.

As soon as she’d unlocked her car, he opened the door for her. She glanced up. “Thanks.” Found him far closer than she’d imagined he’d be. So close she could see the stubble forming on his skin, the intense expression in his eyes.

“Serena,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’ve had an ‘aha’ moment.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I don’t think this is going to be a strictly-business relationship.” Before she could respond, he’d closed the tiny distance between them, pulled her to him and closed his mouth on hers. Hot, determined, possessive, his lips covered hers. He gave her a moment to accept or reject his caress and she used that moment to angle her body closer, to open her lips in mute invitation.

He took her mouth then, licking into her, giving her a taste of his power and hunger. Which, naturally, incited her own. And, oh, she was hungry. He reminded her of how long it had been since she’d lost herself in a man.

A tiny sound came out of her throat, half moan, half purr. He took that as encouragement and pulled her even closer, kissing her deeply and thoroughly. She felt his arousal as he held her tight against his body, felt her own arousal blast through her.

A car with all the windows open blasting music roared into the parking lot and he quickly pulled away, shielding her with his body.

“Aha,” he said.

She gazed up at him, stunned at the strength of her own response. “I don’t date my clients,” she reminded them both.

“I don’t recall asking you for a date,” he said, all sexy and pleased with himself.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

She still had the shivers down the back of her neck as she got into her car and drove away.

6

ADAM COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time a kiss had knocked his socks off like that. That woman was something, he decided, as he thought about the previous day. He’d have her in his bed sooner rather than later. He was already enjoying the anticipation.

His partner, Joey Sorento, wasn’t sharing Adam’s good mood. In fact, Joey seemed to grow more pessimistic with each passing day. He had a dream of moving back to his family’s ancient vineyard on Sicily where Sorentos had been making some of the best extra-virgin olive oil in the world for centuries. But he needed money to buy the place from his aging grandparents. He watched the stock markets the way fishermen watch the weather. Based on observation, Adam didn’t think his partner was much of a stock picker.

Despite being a Sicilian, Joey didn’t have the vaguest connection to the Mob. Didn’t matter. He was known around the precinct as Joey the Virgin. Most everyone called him Virge.

They’d been sent out to investigate a suspicious death in a leafy neighborhood in one of the more expensive suburbs of Hunter.

“Who called it in?” Adam asked as they drove.

“Neighbor. She went in to water plants. The guy was supposed to be in Hawaii for the winter but when she went in this morning, she found him dead.”

Pretty much any time someone died at home, their death was deemed suspicious, except in cases of terminal illness. Most of these calls turned out to be natural deaths—heart attacks, strokes, choking. Or suicides. When they arrived at 271 Greenleaf Road, everything seemed calm. They entered through a gate, walked up a brick path and before they’d reached the front door, a woman appeared behind them. “I’m Vera Swann. From next door,” she said. She was in her sixties. A prosperous-looking woman. She seemed a little shaken. “I thought Norman was in Hawaii. I went in to water his plants, like I always do when he’s away.” She put her hand to her heart. “And I found him. I’m sure he’s dead. I used to be a nurse. I called 911. You beat the ambulance.”

“Can you let us in?” Virge asked.

“Yes, of course.”

The house was modern in design but smelled musty and sort of damp. As if it had been shut up for a while. Vera Swann led them into a den/TV room and there was Norman, still in his bathrobe. A newspaper was open on his lap and his head was tilted forward.

Adam approached, checking the area as he did so. Nothing suspicious. He checked the guy’s pulse. The skin was already cold and waxen. He nodded. “Dead.”

“Looks like a jammer,” Virge said.

“Yep. Or a stroke.”

“Coroner will figure it out, I guess.”

Because they were there, they followed protocol and did a quick walk-through of the house. Adam checked out the upstairs, and Virge took the basement.

While he was wandering through empty bedrooms wondering where he and Virge should stop for coffee, he heard a yell. Virge didn’t get excited by much, so the yell sent him pounding down the stairs, through the main floor and down to the basement.

“Well, well, lookie here,” he said as Virge walked among rows and rows of constructed wooden planters sporting thousands of leafy green plants. “We’ve got ourselves a grow op.”

* * *

SERENA REALLY LIKED it when her speaking engagements were in Seattle. Oh, she’d travel wherever the work took her, but it was so nice to drive to the conference center or a big hotel, give a workshop or luncheon address or whatever was asked of her and head home to her own bed. The Pacific Northwest Executives Association was today’s client and they’d booked her for most of the day. They’d hired her to present a breakfast address called “Reaching for Success” and later a workshop on inspiring optimal performance from employees.

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