Wild Zone (Rough Riders Hockey 4)

She slipped her hand around his biceps, telling Tate, “Matt is an excellent security guard. He needs a raise.”

Tate laughed. And suddenly, looking down into this stranger’s beautiful blue eyes, he wasn’t feeling so shitty about the night anymore.

He nodded confirmation at Matt. “I’ll talk to your dad.”

“Thank you, sir,” Matt’s chest puffed out a little with pride.

“He’s just darling.” She shook her head and walked inside with Tate. “What is he? Sixteen—” She stopped, put her free hand to her chest, and pulled in a breath. “Oh, ce est magnifique.”

Her words came out soft, and when Tate turned narrowed eyes on her, still trying to figure out what she’d said, he found her taking in the space with awe.

“Was that…French?” he asked.

“Oh my. My, my, my.” She released Tate’s arm and turned in slow circles, her gaze taking in everything floor to ceiling. Everything except the people, which was novel when the here were really the main attraction. And while she took in the warehouse, murmuring to herself in a mix of English and what he was sure now had to be French, Tate took in his fill of her.

She wore some exotic scent of flowers and musk that made his mouth water. Her voice caressed his ears while her body-hugging silver dress winked in the dim light. And for the first time in way too long, Tate’s body yearned long after the initial flutter of attraction.

“They’ve done such an amazing job.”

Her words dragged his gaze up her long legs, over her great ass, her flat belly, her full breasts, her sleek neck and rested on her profile. On her little nose. Her big eyes. Her plump lips. Slid over the fall of light hair. Hair that hung long and loose to her shoulders, mostly straight but with a little fullness, a little body. The kind of hair Tate could sink his hands into and find traction.

Oh yeah. The whiskey was working. Because that thought led his mind down an extremely dirty path that included her head between his spread legs, his hands tangled in her hair…

Thick heat gathered in his pelvis. He tore his gaze away from her face and cleared his throat. “So, do you see your sister?”

She scanned the crowd. “No…but there are a lot of people here.” She sighed, turned to face him with a crooked little smile, and shrugged. “I’ll find her eventually. She and my mom will be here until the very end, and I’m sure I’ll be here helping them clean up. What’s with the baby security guard at the door? There can’t be anyone really important here, or you’d have armed guards and Secret Service. A celebrity would have bodyguards.”

Tate grinned. “Baby is a second degree black belt in tae kwon do.”

Her pretty face dropped in surprise. “Duly impressed. I wish I’d known. I would have given him a harder time. People like that make life hell for the rest of us.”

That made Tate laugh.

“It’s true,” she complained with a half chuckle, pushing at his chest. “Don’t laugh at me. My sense of humor is on Paris time, which means it’s sound asleep.”

He caught her wrist and held it gently. He’d forgotten how soft a woman’s skin could be. “I bet a really good glass of French wine would make up for the jet lag.”

Her gaze lowered to his mouth, and her smile burned a little hotter. “A little French anything cures jet lag.”

She pulled back from his grip, flattening her palm against his, then threading their fingers. The move, while simple and harmless, struck Tate as intensely intimate.

“You’re a nice surprise in my day, Tate.”

That zinged through him, and vibrations radiated over his ribs. “Same here.”

With her hand in his, they wandered toward the bar, and Tate couldn’t help but focus on how odd it felt to have a woman’s hand in his again. Odd yet good. So good. Which made Tate’s mind wander to how good the rest of her would feel against the rest of him. The guys were right. He really needed some of that.

At the bar, the young server looked at Tate. “Whiskey, sir?”

“Please, and a glass of the Château Rayas, ninety-five, please.”

Olivia lifted her brows. “That doesn’t pour from just any random spout.” Then she glanced around again, only this time at the people. “Should I recognize anyone?”

Tate rested one butt cheek against a stool, but he didn’t move far. She hadn’t taken her hand out of his, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Only if you like hockey.”

“I used to love hockey,” she said, her eyes coming back to his with a spark of excitement. But in the next second, something clicked and sadness filtered in, snuffing the spark. “In high school,” she added, less enthusiastic. “My dad and I used to watch it. Then I moved overseas and, well…I got busy.”

The bartender returned with his whiskey, a wineglass, and the bottle.