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She swatted his arm. “I’ll take my own shower this time, thank you very much. I’m pretty sure I still have soap in my, uh...in some uncomfortable places from last night. You’re good at lathering but not so hot at rinsing.”
“There wasn’t an inch of you I didn’t take care of.”
Licking those swollen, kiss-reddened lips, she breathed deeply. Remembering. Silently admitting he was right.
But she didn’t relent, and instead scooted toward the opposite side of the bed.
He didn’t argue or try to restrain her. Damien knew he had to give her what she was asking for. Space. Hopefully enough space so she wouldn’t feel pressured and would decide to stay. “All right, you win.”
This battle, anyway. Damien, however, intended to win the war. He usually got what he wanted, and right now, there was nothing more he wanted in the world than Viv Callahan—at least for the near future.
“Thank you,” she said, her long lashes drifting half-closed over those startlingly blue eyes. Her tiny smile said she was glad he hadn’t pressured her.
While she went into the bathroom to shower, he pulled on a robe and glanced over the room service menu. Calling down for breakfast, he ordered a bit of everything, since he wasn’t sure what she would want. Adding Bloody Marys and champagne to the order, he hung up and went into the living room to wait. He doubted the delivery would take long. The staff was aware of his identity, and had been trying to impress him since the minute he’d arrived. Case in point—the elevator security guys.
He might just have to give them a bonus.
He turned on the TV, flipping to a sports station. Damien had been distracted since yesterday afternoon, but now that he had a moment, he realized it was time to check on the business that had brought him here to northern Virginia.
“And now for the latest on the Bruno Neeley scandal.”
Damien stiffened, of course recognizing the name. Lowering himself to the edge of the soft leather sofa, he flicked the volume button, paying rapt attention to the two sportscasters.
“The bad boy of hockey is at it again,” one of them said. “You all saw the shocking footage of Neeley getting smacked by an unidentified woman at the Virginia Vanguard press junket earlier this week.”
“No, we all most certainly have not,” Damien said with a groan. He’d been traveling—and having sex—for the past two days, and hadn’t heard a thing about this. “Damn it,” he muttered, wondering why professional athletes had to be so troublesome.
The other sportscaster smirked. “There was a lot of speculation about what he’d done to deserve it. Now, an attendee at that event has provided us with exclusive footage of the moments leading up to that already infamous slap.”
Hating to watch and already starting to do mental damage control, Damien gritted his teeth as an amateur phone-video zoomed in on a crowded gathering. He recognized the general manager of the Vanguard, who stood behind a podium emblazoned with the new team’s logo. But the person with the cell phone had been more interested in what was going on elsewhere in the room.
Despite the fuzzy, slightly out-of-focus picture, he easily recognized Neeley. The guy’s swagger and bulk made him stand out in any crowd. Focused primarily on the player, Damien didn’t notice right away that the attention of the camera operator had moved to a blond-haired woman seated on a chair in the back corner. But Neeley’s actions most definitely drew his attention there. Because, to his shock, the spoiled player grabbed the woman’s jaw and painfully twisted her face up for a kiss as he dropped a meaty hand high on her thigh.
“Jesus Christ,” Damien snapped, livid on behalf of the woman, and humiliated on behalf of the whole organization.
He began calculating a response, already reaching for his cell phone so he could call the team’s general manager. He probably had dozens of messages from the man and the other owners, frustrated that Damien had his phone off in the middle of a scandal. The general manager had called him as he’d arrived in DC, saying they had an HR issue, but he was dealing with it. Damien, already jet-lagged and juggling bigger issues, had dismissed it.
The sportscasters continued talking, slamming Neeley for his actions, even while chuckling snidely about the comeuppance he’d gotten from the woman. One of them mentioned that they’d managed to identify the blonde, and the screen segued to a more clear video of the press event. A pro cameraman had apparently swung his camera around in time to catch the slap, if not what had inspired it.
He couldn’t wonder that the slap had made news before today, though he’d been oblivious to it. Bruno Neeley’s head had jerked back under the strength of the woman’s indignation. Now that he—and the whole world—had seen what the player had done to deserve the reaction, Damien could muster no surprise and silently applauded the woman.
