Everybody's Hero

Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”

“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.

“So how do you want me?” he asked.

Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.

“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”

She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”

He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”

She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.

She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.

“Where do you want my hands?”

Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.

“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.

The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck

Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”

Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”

“Oh, I think I already have.”

SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.

Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.

“Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.

“Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.

“I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”

“Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.

“Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.

“Must be a testosterone thing.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Among other things.”

Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.

She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.

Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.

Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”

“That’s what all the women say.”

Claire didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”

Jason stopped making lazy eights with his stick. “You skate?”

“It’s been a while, but I think I’ll be good enough.” Claire looked around the rink. The last time she was on skates was when she was a teenager. She’d been in Holland with Big Jim. They’d just come back from Thailand, and as Big Jim exclaimed—Big Jim never just said anything; he always had to announce it to the world—“It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” In Big Jim’s mind that meant it was prime time for drinking and outdoor sports. The exact order of which tended to get a little fuzzy. “We’re here in Hans Brinker country, Claire-y,” she remembered him proclaiming. “We’ve got to skate on the canals.”

And skate they did, along with scores of Dutch parents and their laughing children. The hours on the frozen ice were followed by hours in a pub, with Big Jim putting away endless bottles of beer and regaling the clientele with a bottomless well of tales.

“You sure you’re up to it?” Jason’s voice penetrated her memories.

Claire looked over. “No problem. Look, here comes Elaine.” She nodded toward Trish’s assistant and slid across the rink. At the bench, she quickly laced up. Her feet felt uncomfortable as she wiggled her ankles. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Claire’s first steps on the ice were tentative. Then she relaxed her knees and quickly built up a rhythm of pushing off and gliding, an easy rocking from one skate to the other. She circled in a wide arc near the entrance to the rink, picked up speed and skated back to the center of the ice where Jason stood in the face-off circle.

Jason watched her as she approached. “Not bad.”

“I’m no Sonja Henje, let alone Wayne Gretzky, but it’ll do.” She picked up her camera in both hands. “Listen, ditch the jersey.”

Jason held the uniform top by the V-neck. “This?”

“That’s right.” Claire made a throwing motion with her hand.

“You’re the boss.” Jason slipped it over his head, leaving only the tight black T-shirt—and very little else—to the imagination.

An “ohmygod!” was audible from where Trish was standing by the boards. Then a clump. Claire looked over and saw her bending to retrieve her cell phone.

“Just think what could happen if I went further?” Jason dipped a hand under the bottom edge of his T-shirt and started to lift.

Claire caught a glimpse of his granite-smooth stomach muscles. She swallowed with difficulty. “No, I think you’ve gone far enough. I wouldn’t want Trish to end up face forward.”

“I’m fully qualified at CPR. Trish would be in good hands.”

And she was sure that Trish would be only too willing to take a dive to test out his claim. Which, come to think of it, was just what she had in mind originally. So why did she find herself wanting to see Jason practice his life-resuscitating skills on her, instead of her best friend? Down, girl, down, she admonished.

“Hold that thought. You can play doctor later,” she said. “Guys—” she motioned to the crew “—spread the lights up and down the rink, away from the boards. And, Jason, I want you to skate straight down the ice, not too fast. I’ll skate along with you. I want you to be handling the puck. Look ahead, like you’re planning a shot on goal.”

He took off slowly. “Like this?”

“You can go a little faster. Good. That’s it. Keep looking ahead. You can talk if you want.”

He handled the puck deftly. “So how come you didn’t ask me to take off my shirt, but you gave Clyde Allthorpe the go-ahead?”

“I didn’t have to ask.”

Jason stopped abruptly, the edges of his blades leaving a layer of white powder. “He was already au naturel?”

Claire kept her eye in the viewfinder. “Don’t stop. Keep going. And no, he was not au naturel, as you put it. He was swimming with his fiancée, Donna. And he was wearing swimming trunks—little tiny ones. Bright blue. Very cute.”

“I can imagine.” Jason didn’t sound all that pleased.

“No, don’t look at me. Straight ahead. That’s it. Great. Anyway, like I said, they were just getting out of the pool when I took the photo. They’d been swimming together, very happy. Over the top, actually. Their wedding was the next day. In fact, I was there to shoot their wedding.”

“You were on assignment?”

“Not exactly. I’d met Clyde when he was on an aid mission to Ethiopia. We hit it off, and he asked me if I’d shoot his wedding. It was all very hush-hush, no announcements. When the press got a whiff of it, Clyde and Donna decided the best thing would be to make arrangements to release photos to just one magazine. I talked it over with them, contacted Trish, and of course she jumped at the idea.” She stopped to reload, and Jason pulled up next to her.

“I bet she did.” Jason looked over at Trish, who was chatting up Vernon but still managed to keep a cell phone plastered to one ear. Her blond hair sparkled in the glare of the lights, giving her sophisticated beauty an ethereal glow. It was Tinker Bell with sex appeal.

“So what’s this about Trish needing a husband? I would think she’d be able to pick and choose. Wait a minute—she doesn’t need a husband because she is in the family way, so to speak? I’m not risking a paternity suit.”

“No, she is not in the family way, so to speak, and don’t look so panic-stricken. Besides, I didn’t say she needed a husband. I said she needed a fiancé.” Claire pursed her lips. “Listen, let’s skate down the middle of the ice toward the net at the other end. I want to get a shot of you head-on.” She started to skate backward, looking through the camera. “That’s it. Skate toward me. No, don’t look at me. Look over my shoulder, like you’re scoping out the defense. That’s it. That’s great.”

Jason timed his longer strides to her shorter ones. “So why does she need a fiancé?”

“She doesn’t need a fiancé exactly, more like a pretend fiancé. You see it’s like this—we have to go to this wedding of a former boyfriend of hers, and she doesn’t want him to know she’s unattached. It’s a pride thing.” She kept clicking the shutter. “That’s it. Breathe a little harder through your mouth.”

“Ah, the heavy-breathing thing again.” He puffed out dramatically. “And this ex-boyfriend is supposed to believe that Trish and I are passionately in love?”

“We’ll say you two met on this story and suddenly felt this overwhelming attraction. I mean, look at the two of you. Beauty and brawn.”

“I presume I’m the beauty.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Glamorous careers. Jet-setting lifestyles. It’s perfect.”

“So do you need a fiancé, too?”

Claire kept her head behind the camera. “Nope. No problems with prior attachments.”

“Any plans for the future?”

“No, I’m a free agent, and I’m happy just the way I am.”

“But you’ll be there? At the wedding, I mean?”

“Of course. Who do you think the wedding photographer is?”

“I should have known. Have camera will travel. You know, I gotta warn you.” He sped up his skating.

“Not too close. I can’t focus that close with this lens.” It wasn’t just the lens that was having trouble, as his body space impinged on hers.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?” Her back bumped into the crossbar of the net with a jolt. She would have dropped her camera if the strap hadn’t been around her neck.

“I tried to tell you.” Jason put his hand on her back and massaged the point where she had banged into the bar.

Claire tried not to think about the further pain he was causing.

“I’m beginning to think you need me more than you realize.” He slowly rubbed her shoulder blades.

Claire’s head shot up. “Just because I banged into the net doesn’t mean I need you. And you can stop rubbing now. I didn’t do that much damage.”

“Ah, you don’t know how much damage you’ve already done. In any case, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

“Something else?” She felt a strange letdown when Jason removed his hand.

“Yes, not only do you ride a motorcycle, you also skate backward. As it turns out, these are two of my requirements for a wife. And I must say, you pass with flying colors.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Jason grinned over his shoulder and started to glide away. “Oh, by the way. My keys?”

Claire swore under her breath. She fished into her jeans’ pocket and tossed them underhand. He caught them with an easy swipe and skated away, only to stop and return in a long slow arc.

“Yes?” She scowled as he slid in close. Again, too close.

He lifted one hand.

She watched his hand come close to her face. Then closer. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

With a gentle swipe of his index finger, Jason brushed the corner of her mouth. She flinched. Felt her lips tingle and her tongue turn dry. Gulping was impossible. Inhaling only slightly more doable. He had to know how awkward she was feeling.

Jason smiled broadly. He knew. “Powdered sugar.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “Powdered sugar?”

Jason brought his index finger to his mouth and slowly tasted it. “Yup, definitely powdered sugar. Must have been that donut you were eating when I first rolled up.” He looked down, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

The photographer in Claire leapt to take the pose.

The woman in her was paralyzed.

“And by the way, Claire Marsden,” Jason said lazily over his shoulder as he skated off for a second time. “That was no joke.”

Claire slowly brought her hand to her face and touched the corner of her open mouth. Her skin was hot, incredibly hot. She couldn’t possibly be blushing. She never blushed. But then she’d never been touched by a demon on skates, either.

3

CLAIRE PACED in front of Trish. “You let me go through that whole shoot with powdered sugar on my face!”

“You told him I needed a fiancé?” Trish responded. She darted her head around to see if they were being overheard. She had all the subtlety of a silent film star. The closest person was Elaine. She was over by the bench, talking with the straggly bearded techie. He somehow didn’t seem her type. “Jason probably thinks I’m pathetic.”

“Trust me. He doesn’t think you’re pathetic.” Claire remembered the appreciative look Jason had shown Trish as they got off the ice. Trish, who was looking so together, so sleek. While she, Claire, had a drippy nose and freezing, cramped toes. Sniffling and hobbling—she sounded like two of the Seven Dwarfs. And that’s when she remembered she still had on the skates.

She sat and began yanking them off. “I don’t know why you think anyone would think you’re pathetic. You weren’t the one tripping over her own two feet on the ice, all the while having this white glob on your face. Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire yanked off the second skate and looked around for her boots.

Trish crossed her arms. “Why so touchy about a little bit of sugar on your face? Frankly, I didn’t even notice.”

Claire found one work boot and pulled it on. She didn’t bother to lace it up. “That’s because your eyes were elsewhere.” Claire got on her hands and knees and started scouting under the bench for her other boot.

“He is rather attractive, isn’t he? One could do far worse in the fiancé category. In fact, it might be something worth contemplating seriously—in a very preliminary stage, of course.”

Claire heard the flirtatious lilt to Trish’s voice as she scrounged around on the rubber flooring for her lost boot. Her hand touched something sticky. She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

“So what did he say?”

“About what?” In the dank, dark recesses under the first row of permanent seating, Claire located her boot. It was pushed against the cement riser.

“You know, about pretending to be my fiancé at the wedding?” Trish must have bent down because her voice was louder.

Claire shimmied out backward, deciding the safest route out was the same way she’d come in. She dragged the boot behind her. “We never got that far. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Her derriere emerged from the deep abyss.

“Ask me what?”

Claire banged the back of her head on the bottom of a metal seat. She dropped her boot and it tumbled into the great netherworld of discarded chewing gum and Raisinets. No doubt Jason was looking down at her rear end as she hesitated on all fours. She could crawl back under. But then there was that mysterious sticky goo.

“You need a hand?” Jason’s voice was louder, nearer. Much nearer.

In the shadowy darkness under the seats, Claire sensed immediately that he had joined her. She felt the ripples of energy that emanated from his body. If only he’d thought to bring a flashlight. “No need to bother. I’m fine, thank you.”

“The lady doth protest too much.”

“And the jock knows a literary line or two. I’m impressed. But truly, I wouldn’t advise scrounging around here unless you’ve had a recent tetanus shot. Besides, I’m just looking for my boot. I had it a minute ago and I seem to have lost it again.” Claire groped with her hand. She landed on something. It definitely wasn’t sticky. And it definitely wasn’t her boot.

It was large. It was strong. Sinews ridged the skin. Knuckles defined the contours. Fingers slightly curled; nails blunt cut. And there wasn’t the hint of a wedding ring. It was power at rest. But it hardly made Claire feel restful.

“Whoops, sorry about that.” Claire turned her head.

“Don’t be. It could happen to anyone.” In the darkness he moved his head toward hers. He shifted his hand.

His movement caused Claire to realize that her hand was still on his. “Oh, sorry.” She started to pull it away, but he switched grips, holding her fingers lightly.

The sudden dizziness enveloping her head had to be due to the awkward position she was in, Claire told herself. She cleared her throat, if not her brain functions. “I think my boot may be over by your hand.”

She leaned awkwardly in that direction. And felt her mouth brush his cheek.

Jason turned. His lips accidentally touched hers.

His lips pressed lightly. Maybe not an accident? It was brief. Lips ever so slightly parted. Warm breaths and tumbling heartbeats mixing.

And it was the most mind-numbing experience of Claire’s life. And it was happening under the seat of a hockey rink.

“You guys all right down there?”

Trish’s voice penetrated the haze of emotions that engulfed Claire. She felt Jason’s hand tighten briefly before he let go.

“No problem. We were just searching for Claire’s boot. I think I found it.” He searched with his other hand, passing it to Claire.

She was surprised she could still mumble thanks. Backing out on her hands and knees, she slowly rose.

“Find something interesting down there?” Trish rested one hand on her hip.

Claire shivered. “You don’t want to know.” She dropped her boot to the ground and worked it on with her toes. Jason got to his feet, as well. He raked his hand through his thick hair.

“Well, come now,” Trish announced. “Enough of this hide-and-seek. Vernon has agreed to leave you in our care, Jason, for the rest of today’s schedule.” She flounced her coat more squarely on her shoulders. “Why don’t you leave that motorbike of yours here while we take a taxi uptown to the hospital?” Trish waved in the general direction of Elaine, who looked as if she was starting to lose interest in her Mr. Right. “Elaine can drive it up and meet us there.”

“Claire maybe, Elaine never,” Jason said.

“I’m only too happy.” Claire walked over and grabbed her camera bag. Whatever distance she could put between herself and Jason would be a welcome blessing.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Claire. We need you close by. We can always send a security guard. What’s more to the point—” Trish grabbed Jason’s arm “—when we’re all alone in the taxi, I want to know what you think about the fiancé thing.” Claire trailed behind as Trish kept her half nelson grip on Jason. “I realize it’s an imposition, and it was highly unprofessional of Claire to mention it to you during a session.”

“Maybe I will ride the bike after all,” Claire murmured.

“What’s that, Claire?” Trish stuck out her hand for a cab. The ones that sped by had their lights on, indicating they were occupied. “I should have had Elaine arrange for a car service to pick us up.” She dug in her Prada shoulder bag and pulled out her cell phone. “I can still have her do it.”

Claire saw some commuters eyeing Jason. It was only a matter of time before they were surrounded. “Never mind about Elaine.” She spotted a taxi barreling down the other side of Sixth Avenue, stepped off the curb, and with her thumb and middle finger forming a circle, delivered a piercing whistle.

Like Odysseus responding to the sirens’s call, the cab made a suicidal move through the traffic and shrieked to a halt. All that was lacking was for it to be dashed against the rocks. Luckily, the curbs in Manhattan are low and rounded.

Trish snapped her cell phone shut. “I’d forgotten that little trick of yours.” She let Jason hold open the car door, then got into the back seat first.

Jason waited for Claire to get in next. “You realize you just demonstrated requirement number three.” He pantomimed her whistling.

Claire stared at the way his fingers touched his open mouth. And found her libido bouncing around with all the manic exuberance of a two-month-old Labrador retriever. “Boy, you’re easy to please. Half the women in the world must meet your requirements. And if you don’t get in the taxi soon, a few of them will be joining us any minute.”

They bundled in, Claire in the middle. Her camera bag rested on her lap. Jason didn’t seem much farther away. “You can’t move a little?” She looked down at his thigh pressed up against her leg.

Jason leaned over to speak to Trish, ignoring Claire’s comment. “So, tell me about the wedding.” His jacket sleeve put pressure on Claire’s shoulder.

Claire pursed her lips and studied the taxi driver’s license displayed on the dashboard.