Trust me! You can't go wrong with professional hockey player heroes!!
Clara Bean, Europe's most respected restaurant critic, lands on American soil to do a promotional tour with a sports icon. But how will she keep her career-ending secret from her deliciously handsome new partner? She quickly learns that all games have rules, even falling in love.
Luc Bisquet can't seem to score any points with sassy, sexy Clara despite the palatable chemistry between them. But he's willing to endure as many penalties as it takes to crack her icy reserve, because winning is everything.
And here's an excerpt:
Leaning on the doorjamb of the bathroom—her bathroom—hooded eyes taking in every detail, sizzling her skin from hairline to toenails.
Clara clutched the top of the towel to ensure the tuck stayed…tucked. Perusal complete, his gaze finally settled on hers, the cerulean nearly obliterated by the black of his pupils. He looked predatory, dangerous, and very hungry.
Clara felt as though she’d been plunged back into the tub as heat radiated from her center, finding spots to swirl and pool, her cheeks, her breasts, her lady bits.
She grasped the overlapping slit in the towel and clumsily dropped her hairbrush in the process.
She looked down. The brush lay at his feet.
Did she dare?
She’d be kneeling in front of him. There was no way to retrieve it gracefully. If he were a gentleman, he would pick it up. She glanced back up, appealing to him with her expression.
His mouth twitched.
“Riley says we have issues to resolve,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said and took a purposeful step over her brush until they were chest-to-chest.
Clara Elizabeth Bean, really? Is that all you’ve got? Say something! But she couldn’t because her mind had shut down while all bodily systems went into hyper drive. He was close, so close, and the hotel towel, no matter how splendid and fluffy, seemed insignificant and scrappy when it was all that was protecting her from him.
“So, I thought we should begin with the night we met,” he said.
“Uh-huh?” she squeaked. She didn’t dare tilt her head back to look up at him, so she stared at his neck. Smooth, corded, she could see his pulse twitch and wondered what it would feel like to plant a kiss there, wondered if she’d feel his heart beating beneath her lips.
“You’re telling me it was a misunderstanding, a breakdown of communications, correct?” Luc leaned forward, forcing her retreat.
“And you didn’t want me to leave that night.”
Another step—his forward, hers back, like a predatory dance.
Two more steps, first hunter, then prey. Her heart tripped and stumbled.
“No what?” he growled.
She needed to put physical distance between them, now, or prepare to put her reservations aside, accept that what she fought against was too powerful to deny, rules be damned. She managed a small shuffle backward, an uncommitted attempt to flee, and found herself pressed against the glass dining table. Trapped.
“No, I didn’t want you to go.” Clara shook her head, causing droplets of water to rain onto her shoulders.
“And you say you did open the door, eventually?”
Luc reached up and brushed the water over the curve of her shoulder and down her arm. All except for one drop. Clara shivered as he chased a rogue bead that had spilled over the blade of her collarbone. Watched his long, masculine forefinger trail the droplet as it crept downward. The fine hairs on her body jumped to attention, leaving her skin pebbled and longing to be touched.
“Yes.” Her voice sounded small, all the air trapped in her chest, trapped beneath his hovering hand. She stood, mesmerized, and watched as the pad of his finger inched along toward the swell of her chest, leaving a line of fire in its wake.
The water drop was gone, absorbed by the towel, but he didn’t remove his hand. He ran his finger along the edge of the cloth, skimming her flesh. “And we would have had sex, correct?”
“Well I…I think…I guess—”
He tilted her chin so she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “Say yes, Clara.”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.
“Yes, what?” He slipped his hand into the gap at the side of her towel and placed a palm against the curve of her hip. Her skin smoldered under his touch, her nerves awakening, rocketing signals to every erogenous zone in her body.
“Yes,” she nodded.
He’d gone too far, pushed too hard. She couldn’t turn back now; it would kill her.
“Yes Luc, we would have had sex.” She held his gaze, direct, unabashed, offering both surrender and challenge. “We would have had great sex.”