The Sinner (The St. Clair Brothers 1)

Rocco took a blow to the side of his face and I inhaled sharply through my nose. He didn't look phased by the punch, so I relaxed and continued.

“The irony that his last name starts with Saint, combined with the fact that he’s a violent jerk, earned him the nickname ‘The Sinner.’” Yes, I made air quotes. “I mean look at him, Nat. The guy is so unhinged he shouldn't even be allowed to play.” The men continued to grapple and I sucked my tongue between my teeth. My pulse fluctuated with each punch thrown. “The really sucky part is that he's drop-dead, inhumanly gorgeous.” I snorted and rolled my eyes. "Not that it matters. His personality is awful. Sebastien St. Clair is hands down the biggest jackass in the entire NHL.”

I can admit he’s good looking. I may have poured over pictures of Sebastian St. Clair, and, as an aspiring journalist whose brother plays professional hockey, watched a lot of press conferences, some of which coincidentally included the Atlanta player. It would be highly unlikely to find a single straight woman, including myself, who didn't drool and get all hot and bothered at the sight of Sebastian St. Clair. What’s unfortunate, is the second he opens his beautiful, bow-shaped mouth, those stunning good looks dissolve like a mirage. The guy is a hot mess of anger, curses, and total assholeiness, both on and off the ice.

Which, because I’m an idiot, ended up turning me on like nothing else ever had. And that made me angry.

I will never forget the first time I laid eyes on Sebastian St. Clair, two, maybe three years earlier. I couldn’t forget, and not just because the man turned my crank. Because of the way Rocco—who as upset as he got at times, never, ever raised his voice at me—did just that.

Rocco and I sat on the couch to watch SportsCenter, my brother nice and relaxed since he didn't have a game for two more days. The commentators discussed the day’s NHL highlights, showing clips of the best and worst plays, then they ran various snippets of post-game press conferences from across the league. A couple minutes in, Sebastien St. Clair's face, in all it's perfection and glory, filled Rocco's enormous flat screen TV. I must have been unconsciously drawn to him, because without realizing it, I shifted to the edge of the cushion, eyes glued to the eighty-inch image of the most beautiful man I'd ever seen.

“Don't even think about it.” I flinched at Rocco’s bark and turned to find him doing his grimacey thing. At me. His expression was so harsh, chill bumps popped up on my arms. “That guy,” Rocco pointed a finger at the screen, “is a complete horse's ass. I don't want you anywhere near him.”

Like always, I began to protest just for the sake of protesting. “But —”

“No buts!” Rocco practically roared. I shrank back into the couch. Rocco never yelled at me. Ever. The only response I could manage was a quick nod. “I mean it, Ky.” He leaned in close. “Stay away from him.”

Faced with Rocco’s serious stare, flared nostrils and burning eyes, I swallowed tightly. Even though the warning only made the temptation to get close to Sebastien St. Clair a thousand times stronger, I said what he wanted to hear.

“Okay.”

Whistles went off and the clock stopped, but Rocco and St. Clair were on another planet. Refs or not, the brawl continued. Their blue (Rocco) and white (St. Clair) jerseys moved so fast, I couldn't lock onto any one single thing, seeing only a mish-mashed blur of colors. Before I could blink, their gloves were off and punches were thrown.

Right. In. Front. Of. Me.

I gaped and my mouth hung open like a largemouth bass. The big jerk with the name St. Clair stamped on his jersey in bold red, hauled back his fist, swung. When it connected with Rocco's nose, I winced.

I managed to choke out an “Oh my god!” and leapt from my seat as if zapped by a cattle prod. My iced tea went flying everywhere, not that I cared. Screaming, I pressed my palms on

the divider and banged on it hard enough to rattle the boards. “Hey you!” Despite the deafening noise in the arena, the shouts, the boos, the cheers, and the hiss of skates on ice, by some miracle, Sebastien St. Clair heard me. He must have, because he glanced up, and when our gazes met time stopped.

I swore, right then and there, the man I secretly fantasized about for years, was able to see right through me. Knew I wanted him. Read me like a book from cover to cover. The moment was short — just long enough to catch a glimpse of his incredible blue eyes, filled with sparks of playfulness that defied the violent actions of their owner. It was long enough. I was mesmerized by him. That one shared look may as well have lasted hours instead of a fraction of a second.

Then it was over and Sebastien St. Clair returned his attention to beating on my brother. What did it say about me, that even when he was exchanging blows with Rocco, who gave back just as good, I still found St. Clair sexy? Maybe it was the lure of the forbidden. Or maybe it was because during that infinitesimally small moment in time, that one teeny exchange we shared, my body had burst into flames, the fire flickering and growing into a frenzy of lust and want and need.

No. I was not attracted to Sebastien St. Clair.

I mean, yes. I was attracted to him, but only physically. The man was a jerk of the highest order, with an ego so large you could probably see it from space.

Again, the men slammed into the boards and my heart leapt into my throat. I held my breath, but not because of the brutal violence that played out a few feet away. My breath was stolen by the intensity of the feelings triggered by those fiery blue eyes. Another sharp whistle and I inhaled, bringing much-needed oxygen to my burning lungs. Palms still on the plexi, I stabbed at it with an index finger.

Okay fine. I can admit Sebastien St. Clair is sexy. Didn’t matter. Rocco is my brother and I will always support him on the ice.

“Hey you! Yeah, you, St. Clair! Back off, you big jerk!”

The refs futilely pushed their way through the thick crowd of bulky players who gathered in a tight circle to egg on the fight. Rocco detached from St. Claire's grip and used the back of his hand to swipe at his nose. When it came back bloody for the second time in two straight games against Atlanta, Rocco glared at the red smear. His dark eyes flashed with fury and he stared holes in Sebastien St. Clair’s face, while the muscles in his jaw ticked.

Uh oh. I recognized that look. Things were about to go away, way south.

I pounded harder on the partition and screeched at the clearly insane, and regrettably hot, Sebastien St. Clair. “Stop it, you… you asshole!”

Amazingly, he heard me again, and those eyes, the bluest I'd ever seen, locked onto mine once more. Startled by the potency of his stare, and its ability to send a flush of prickly heat over my skin, I jerked away from the partition and for a moment forgot where I was and what I was doing. The two of us stared at each other through the handprint-smudged divider.

“Ky,” Nat said, shaking my arm. Only I couldn't tear myself away from St. Clair's hypnotizing sapphire eyes. He couldn't move either. Well, not until Rocco's fist flew out of nowhere and connected with the side of his face. I winced as St. Clair's eyes squeezed shut and his head snapped sideways. Then, I started to scream.

“Oh my —“

It was St. Clair's turn to have his head slammed against the boards. His chiseled cheekbone crashed into the exact spot where I rested my palms. In a 'blink and you missed it' moment, the infamous Sinner ended up with his face smooshed against the half-inch piece of plexi that separated us. He blinked, glanced down at my Calloway jersey, and gave me a cruel—and ugh! too sexy—smirk before turning to retaliate on my brother.