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But she was kidding herself to hope he might not. Everybody would see this. All her friends back home, who’d been so excited for her as a woman breaking into a male-dominated industry. Her local friends, who’d cautioned her about what she might be getting herself into when she’d taken the job—wouldn’t they be feeling justified right about now, at least the ones who were friends of the fair-weather variety? That certainly didn’t include Lulu or Amelia, who already knew about the situation.
And then there was her family. Oh, God, her brothers. They were probably already piling into Dad’s SUV and driving down here to protect her virtue by pounding the snot out of Bruno Neeley.
Not that he didn’t deserve it. But considering she just wanted this whole thing to go away, she’d prefer that Neeley’s snot stay right where it was—inside his fat, brainless head.
A quick rap gave her a moment’s warning before Damien pushed the half-open door all the way open. She spun around to grab the remote. Unfortunately, her feet—and the glossy tile floor—were wet. Her heels flew out from under her, and she went caterwauling, destined for a face-plant on the marble counter. Her towel fell one way, her body another, and the remote skittered off the counter to land somewhere near—or possibly in—the toilet.
“Whoa, there,” Damien said, diving to the rescue. He landed on one knee, probably crunching it painfully on the hard floor, but did manage to stop her fall. She collapsed into his strong arms with a whoosh, the breath knocked out of her.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
He did. He’d taken a dive to catch her, playing the role of gentleman so easily it had to be an intrinsic part of his personality. Having such evidence of the goodness of a man, after confronting the visual evidence of pure ugliness, suddenly overwhelmed her.
Viv sniffed as moisture stabbed at her eyes. She hadn’t cried since losing her job. Now, because of the sweet gesture of a man who could easily become an addiction, tears were welling up in her eyes and starting to drip down her cheeks.
“Baby, are you okay?” he asked, looking aghast when he noticed the tears. “Are you hurt? God, I didn’t break you, did I?”
She sniffed again and managed a half laugh, half snort. “I’m not broken. You saved me from smashing my face on the counter. I might have cracked my head open.”
“So what’s wrong? Last night...”
“You didn’t break me then, either. I guess I’m just in shock.”
He nodded, reaching up to brush a long strand of wet hair off her face. She couldn’t imagine how she looked—probably worse than a drowned rat—but he cupped her cheek tenderly and bent to brush his lips against hers.
She returned the kiss, both for the comfort—which she found herself desperately wanting—and in the hopes that the guys on the TV screen would segue into another story and Damien wouldn’t see it.
She should have realized she’d used up her year’s quota of good luck just in meeting the man.
“I saw the story,” he said when they drew apart. Nodding toward the TV, he added, “I guess you did, too.”
Viv hid a groan, and wiped the tears off her face with her hand. She struggled out of his arms, trying to stand, wanting to appear independent and competent. But her feet had other ideas. She slipped again and collapsed against him.
“Let me help you,” he insisted, standing as well, a steadying hand on her shoulder, another at her waist.
“I’m fine. It’s this stupid floor. Who was the genius who chose something this slick for the bathroom? This hotel is lucky you were here to save me or they’d be facing a big lawsuit.”
He blanched, swallowing visibly. Feeling bad about worrying him, she admitted, “I’m fine. It’s not a big deal, I wasn’t hurt. And I really can stand on my own—once I dry my feet.”
Obviously not believing her, he pulled her into his arms and hugged her close. Viv slipped her hands into his robe and pushed it open, wanting the connection of skin on skin. As far as comforting went, nothing beat warm, naked, sexy man.
Damien gently massaged her back, stroking her, soothing her, and she relaxed into him, taking what she could get. But she stiffened again when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me it was a famous hockey star who’d harassed you?”
“What difference does it make?” she mumbled. “He could have been a plumber and I still would have gotten fired.”
“No, I don’t believe you would have,” Damien insisted, his voice low, throbbing with anger. He pulled away from her, though he kept his hands at her waist. Gazing down at her, heat in his eyes, he said, “They can’t get away with this.”
