Read the book: «A Perfect Distraction»

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU DIDN’T tell me there would be paparazzi!” Maggie Goodman muttered into her phone.

As if she wasn’t nervous enough. She ducked behind the trees, out of sight of the snap-happy vultures with their powerful cameras and long-range lenses. Thankfully, they hadn’t spotted her; their attention remained focused hungrily on the front entrance of Trump Place.

“Relax, sis,” Tracy soothed. “They’ll be watching for Manhattan’s glitterati. They won’t care about the ex-wife of a jack-the-lad footballer. Soccer isn’t as popular in the States as it is back home in England.”

“Everyone here seems to know David Beckham and Posh Spice.”

“Sure, but how many have heard of Wayne Rooney and Colleen, let alone know what they look like? They won’t know Lee Goodman.” Her voice softened. “Or you.”

Anonymity was one of the reasons Maggie had leaped at Tracy’s offer to come to the United States. She’d been tired of having the details of her messy divorce splashed across the tabloids and of being asked questions by the gossip media every time her ex was seen with a new woman. He could date who he pleased as long as he left Maggie and her seven-year-old daughter, Emily, alone. They’d suffered enough.

“They won’t recognize you,” Tracy added. “You look completely different now.”

Maggie smoothed her dark brown hair, recently restored to her natural color from bleached blond, then checked the café au lait linen dress and matching jacket she’d worn for this evening’s meeting. Understated, professional and elegant, it was as far from tarty footballer’s wife as she could get. Not what she was used to wearing—she’d thrown away every bling-covered, barely there outfit as soon as her divorce had been finalized—but it felt normal.

Lee would hate it. Despite the heat, a shiver went through her as she recalled the repercussions of his disapproval. She shook her head to clear the brutal images. She didn’t have to worry about what her ex thought anymore. She didn’t have to worry what any man thought. Maggie would never give anyone the chance to control her life that way again.

“You’re right.” She wished the nervous fluttering in her stomach would settle. “I just don’t want to let you down. I know how important this meeting is for Making Your Move. What if I mess it up?”

Bad enough that Tracy was flat on her back in a hospital bed after emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix and that her assistant had run off with a minor-league baseball player, one of the relocation business’s clients. Maggie would never forgive herself if she ruined her sister’s chance of winning the contract with the New Jersey Ice Cats, the local professional hockey team.

“I doubt you could make things worse. What could go wrong?”

“Jake Badoletti’s a professional sportsman with a bad-boy reputation. We both know how temperamental they can be.” Her gut twisted at the thought of the one she’d divorced nearly a year ago. She touched a finger to the fading scar on her cheek.

“Jake at his worst is a million times better than your snake of an ex. When I dealt with Bad Boy, he was charming—not what I’d expected given the media stories about him.”

Maggie had read the client file about the popular hockey player. Jake “Bad Boy” Badoletti was a top defenseman who played as hard off the ice as on it. Clippings from the society pages and celebrity magazines, as well as excerpts from internet sites like TMZ, had shown him dating a staggering array of beautiful women and attending countless parties and celebrity events.

Admittedly, there had been a shift in the stories after the horrific car accident that had taken the life of his good friend. Jake had been injured badly enough that there were fears he’d never skate again, let alone play professionally. Once he’d recovered, the media coverage had focused on his charity work and fan-appreciation events.

Had he really changed, or was he as good at playing the PR game as he was hockey? In her experience, leopards didn’t change their spots.

Either way, it made no difference; she had a job to do. “I’d better go or I’ll be late.”

“I really appreciate you doing this for me, sis.”

“Let’s see if you still feel like that after I’ve spoken with Jake.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s a straightforward meeting.”

“Get him to sign the paperwork that says everything went okay with his move from Chicago.” Maggie tapped her briefcase. “And check if he needs anything else.”

“See, piece of cake. You’ll be in and out of there in no time. Then I promise you can focus on helping me with the admin side of the business instead of taking client meetings.”

“Sounds good.” Maggie kept her voice light. “By the time I finish here and collect Emily from your neighbor’s house, we’ll have missed visiting hours. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I’m glad Emily hit it off with Janice’s daughter, Amy. It’ll do both of you single mothers a favor.” Tracy swore and lowered her voice. “Nurse Attila is outside my room. She’ll give me hell if she catches me on my cell. She’s already confiscated my laptop.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to be resting, not working.”

“Working helps me feel better.” Tracy’s sharp intake of breath said moving was still painful.

“So would following the doctor’s orders.”

“You always were the bossy big sister. Oops, got to go. See you tomorrow.”

Maggie shook her head indulgently as she snapped her phone shut. Not much kept her sister down. She’d do well to take a leaf out of Tracy’s book.

Helping Tracy was a small way to thank her for giving Maggie the chance to provide a safe, secure life for Emily, far away from Lee. It was also an opportunity to rebuild the self-confidence and independence her ex had stolen from her. This meeting was an important first step. Admittedly, she hadn’t done anything yet, but from the smallest acorns...

“Okay. I can do this.” She squared her shoulders, then strode purposefully toward the brass-and-glass entrance.

Tracy was right. The paparazzi paid no attention to Maggie, giving her only a brief, dismissive glance as she walked past them and through the doors into the lobby.

Relieved at having made it past the first hurdle unscathed, she stepped into a waiting elevator and jabbed the button for the fortieth floor. She checked her appearance in the mirrored wall and grimaced. The ferry ride from Weehawken, along with the summer heat and humidity, had reddened her cheeks and frizzed her hair. Grateful for the air-conditioning, she tried to fix the damage, then turned her mind to the upcoming meeting.

Jake Badoletti was New Jersey’s prodigal son. Recently transferred from Chicago, the Ice Cats management and fans believed he’d bring the ultimate hockey prize, the Stanley Cup, back to his home state. Keen to ensure their star player’s transition went smoothly, the Ice Cats had given Tracy carte blanche in managing Jake’s relocation. They’d promised to put her on retainer for all their player moves if she delivered for Bad Boy.

With Jake settled into his new place, all Tracy needed was for him to sign off the move. She hadn’t wanted to wait until she was out of hospital and had begged a favor.

Maggie swallowed hard. She’d never done anything like this before; she’d been a secretary, then a sports star’s wife, not a businesswoman. Talk about a baptism of fire.

Taking in a deep breath, she tried to calm her jittery pulse. It was only one meeting, and Tracy was depending on her to give it her best shot. I won’t let her down.

The soft digital voice announcing the fortieth floor made her heart thump heavily.

“Showtime.” Stiffening her spine, she strode out of the lift.

Her steps faltered. Noise spilled out of the open apartment doors. Voices and laughter, underscored with a heavy bass beat. The air was thick with a mix of expensive perfume and potent aftershave.

Jake had arranged their meeting during a party? That didn’t reassure her about the kind of man he was.

Several enormous men headed past her toward the elevator. Built like tanks, with thick necks and tattoos, she guessed they were American footballers. A couple of tanned women wearing microminis, crop tops and skyscraper heels hung off each player’s arm.

Maggie couldn’t help a pang of envy when she saw one of the women wearing a sexy pair of Giuseppe Zanotti studded sandals. Her toes curled in her sling-backs. Even though they were Chanel—she hadn’t given up the designer shoes she loved—the sedate pair didn’t have the same feel she knew those strappy stilettos would.

Once, she would have loved being at a party like this. She would have delighted in rubbing shoulders with those richer and more famous than she and Lee were, hoping some of their glitz would come her way. Back then, she would have found a way to be the center of attention.

“Get your butt over here, Cindy,” one of the men growled impatiently at a blonde tottering unsteadily behind the group.

Maggie’s stomach twisted as darker memories filled her mind. She turned away, desperate to escape both her thoughts and the building as fast as possible. Before she could take a step, an inner voice reminded her that wasn’t an option.

She brushed her damp palms against her linen dress and forced the memories aside. Her heels clicked on the marble floor as she walked along the hallway.

Her sense of dread grew as she progressed through the apartment. Aside from the flamboyantly garish decor, this could have been the house she’d left behind in England. From the leather, steel and glass furniture to the top-of-the-range boys’ toys in every room, the place reeked of money and testosterone overload.

She’d expected to find Jake at the heart of the party, but he wasn’t among the crowd in the living room. There were some fit blokes, probably teammates, and a couple of actors she recognized from one of the New York cop dramas, as well as a bunch of fresh-faced clones in buttoned-down shirts and chinos who could be Wall Street whiz kids, lawyers or the wealthy of Upper Manhattan. The women were all tall, thin and tanned with long, shiny hair and the latest designer fashions.

Jake wasn’t among the thick necks doing body shots off a giggling redhead sprawled across the long, shiny table in the dining room. Nor in the den, where another group of men sprawled on leather couches alongside yet more tanned, scantily clad women, watching a baseball game on a giant plasma screen.

Where the heck was he? How could she make a good impression on him when she couldn’t find him? Biting back a sigh, she headed in a different direction.

Near the master suite, she noticed a pair of handsome, well-built men coming toward her. Clearly brothers, they looked like athletes. Hockey players? Maybe they knew where Jake was hiding.

“Excuse me. Have you seen Jake Badoletti?”

“Honey, whatever you want from Jake, I can do better,” the taller man said with a twinkle in his eye.

Though she normally ignored such blatant flirtation, the man’s grin was infectious. Maggie couldn’t help smiling back.

“Behave, Tru.” The stockier bloke frowned, then glanced through the open door behind them. “Jake’s kind of busy.”

Maggie’s smile faded. Great. Her client was holed up in his bedroom with a groupie. She was tempted to leave and make him reschedule, but she didn’t want to get Tracy into trouble. “I’ll wait for him in the living room. Thank you.”

“Don’t rush off. Have a drink with us.” The friendlier brother stuck out his hand. “Tru Jelinek. I play with Jake on the Ice Cats. This is my brother, Ike.”

They seemed harmless enough, and it would be better than waiting alone. “Nice to meet you. Maggie Goodman.”

“You’re English?” Ike studied her carefully. “I didn’t think you Brits were hockey fans.”

“I’m not a fan. I’m with Making Your Move. I have an appointment with Jake.”

“Tracy’s company?”

“I’m her sister. I’m helping her out until she’s back on her feet.”

“We heard about her busted appendix.” He sounded concerned. “Is she doing okay?”

“Yes, thank you. She’s recovering nicely, but frustrated she’s not healing faster.”

“I bet,” he muttered.

“Do you know her well?” She was curious about his reaction.

“She helped me find my town house last summer.”

From his tone, there was more to that story than the single, bald sentence, but she didn’t have time to explore it, as Tru motioned her toward the open bedroom door.

“Since you’re here on business, you should go on in.”

When Maggie hesitated, he urged her on. “You’re not interrupting anything important. Besides, the sooner you’re done, the sooner you can join us for a drink.”

Swallowing her apprehension over what she’d see within, she gripped her briefcase tightly and stepped into the doorway.

In the large sitting area of the suite, by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a group of women fluttered around a tall, dark-haired man like a flock of brightly colored exotic birds. That must be Jake Badoletti.

Her mouth went dry.

None of the photos in Tracy’s file had done him justice. She’d known he was good-looking, but that didn’t begin to describe the man in person.

Heaven help her, he was gorgeous!

Square jawed and rugged, with piercing blue eyes and a crooked grin. He was clearly a warrior of the ice, but his broken nose and scars somehow added to his appeal and made him more intriguing. Unlike the hulking bodies of the thick necks, Jake had the firm, solid lines of an athlete in peak condition. Lean, corded muscle shaped the snug-fitting black shirt and faded jeans. Exciting and enticing, he brimmed with charm and hints of danger.

No wonder he had that reputation—any woman would have a hard time resisting the pull of this particular bad boy. Once upon a time, she’d have been in that crowd, fighting for his attention. Not anymore. Never again.

Still, she couldn’t help feeling a little relieved that she probably wouldn’t see him again.

He’d be Tracy’s problem, assuming Maggie did what she had to do in this meeting. Pushing aside a last-minute nervous quiver, she donned her polite but reserved media smile and entered the lion’s den.

* * *

“WHAT CAN I get you, Bad Boy?”

A skinny blonde in a figure-hugging yellow microdress and spiked heels offered a champagne flute and a shot glass, but the message in her baby blue eyes said, “Choose me.”

Jake held up the beer bottle he’d been nursing for the past hour and forced a smile of regret he didn’t feel. “I’m good, thanks.”

Her full lips pursed in a disappointed pout that six months ago he would have been tempted to kiss away. Now he couldn’t dredge up any interest. He was relieved when she and several of her friends flounced off.

The high-pitched chatter of the women who remained reverberated in his head, making his temples throb. The sickly mix of their perfumes made him yearn for fresh air. He had to get out of here. If it wasn’t for the paparazzi camped outside the building, Jake would have gone for a walk. He would take the heat and humidity of the city in August if it meant he got some respite.

This party had been a mistake. He should have been in his element. Instead, he felt dissatisfied. Empty, with a lingering sense his life was incomplete.

He wouldn’t even be hosting this shindig if Tru hadn’t insisted. His childhood friend had said that the best way to celebrate the transfer from Chicago was to invite Jake’s new teammates to one of his famous star-studded bashes. Though he hadn’t felt like partying since the accident, Jake had given in. Which was why his apartment was filled with the cream of Manhattan’s glitterati mingling with stars from the other pro sports teams in New York.

Jake wished he was somewhere, anywhere, else.

He bit back a sigh. His move home was supposed to be a fresh start. God only knew why he’d been lucky enough to survive that crash, but Jake had promised Adam, at his friend’s graveside, that he’d make the most of the second chance he’d been given. He’d change his life. Show the world, and himself, that he was more than his reputation. More than his nickname.

He knew nothing would bring Adam back. Nor erase the guilt that lay heavy and hard, like a frozen puck, in his heart. But he’d sworn to honor his friend by fulfilling the dream they’d both had since peewee hockey. The dream that had died for Adam on that back road in Chicago. Jake would win the Stanley Cup and raise it above his head in his friend’s memory.

It wouldn’t be easy. Hell, it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done. He’d come close before—even made it to the final, before losing in six games to the Penguins. But this time he had to go all the way. Coming second was not an option.

A husky voice interrupted his thoughts. “Come and dance with me, Bad Boy.” The invitation came from a brunette dressed in scarlet with lips painted to match. “They’re playing our song in the living room.”

He shook his head, softening his rejection with a smile. “You go ahead. I’ll catch you up shortly.”

She shrugged and waggled her fingers in farewell before leaving with a few friends.

If only the rest would follow her.

Jake swigged his beer, grimacing at the flat, warm brew. Once this party was over, his fresh start could begin. He would have one goal, one focus. No more high-octane living, nothing that could be a distraction. No women, either. Dating was off the cards until next June. He’d find somewhere else to live, too. This Trump Place apartment was pure Bad Boy. The old him, not who he needed to be now.

That reminded him—he was meeting someone from Making Your Move this evening. He was glad he’d deliberately scheduled the follow-up during the party; he had an excuse to duck out of the fun.

A movement by the door caught his attention. He glanced over, wondering idly whether the newcomer was a celebrity, a socialite or a puck bunny, and mentally braced himself to switch on the charm.

His attention caught and held.

The woman standing there clearly wasn’t a party guest. She wore little makeup and her dark brown hair was scraped back. A few curls had escaped to softly frame her face. Her neatly tailored brown outfit draped nicely over her curves, but there wasn’t an inch of skin visible from midcalf to neck. Even her toes were covered.

Instead of turning him off, she had him wondering if those shapely calves meant her legs were gorgeous all the way up. Did she paint her toenails fire-engine red or shell pink? How much smooth, creamy skin would be revealed if he undid one of those large jacket buttons?

Unexpected heat flashed through Jake.

This was crazy. He was surrounded by the most beautiful women in New York, yet his body chose to spring to attention at Miss Prim and Proper?

Pull yourself together, Badoletti. He shook his head to clear it.

“Is something wrong, Bad Boy?” A model in a hot-pink crop top, which emphasized both her tan and her jutting shoulder and pelvic bones, touched his arm.

Fighting the urge to brush off her hand, he shook his head again. “Excuse me. There’s someone I need to see.”

She followed his gaze. “Sure,” she said, flicking a dismissive glance at the woman in brown before sauntering away with a deliberate swing to her hips.

As Jake walked across the room, Tru appeared beside the intriguing newcomer.

“Hey, bro, this is Tracy’s sister, Maggie.” Curiosity gleamed in his green eyes. “Apparently, you have a meeting.”

“We do.” Jake grinned. “Thanks for coming, Maggie. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Not at all.” She shook his hand.

Her accent made her sound cool and polite. Yet the instant their fingers touched, tiny sparks of heat danced across his skin. Desire speared through him, even as she pulled her hand away.

“Don’t keep her working too long. This is a party.” Tru laid his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Hope to see you again very soon.”

“Thank you for your help.”

Her soft smile at his friend as he left caused Jake’s stomach to tighten.

“Let’s find somewhere quieter to talk,” he suggested, motioning for her to precede him out of the master suite.

“All right.”

Maggie’s expression was stony as they walked down the hall, past several laughing, tipsy couples, toward the spare room he’d commandeered as an office. He was surprised by her stiff attitude until he noticed the wariness in her chocolate-brown eyes.

Realization dawned. She thought he wanted to turn their meeting into a private party.

Disappointment twinged. It was his own damn fault. He’d spent too long living up to his image and courting publicity, relishing every column inch and glossy photo.

That would all change after today. And she was here to help.

Jake reached past her to fling open the door. She flinched when it banged against the wall. Jeez, the woman was uptight.

“I’m sorry for the mess.” He gathered up folders from the marble-topped coffee table and tossed them into a box. “There’s so much paperwork associated with a transfer.”

Maggie scanned the room, then joined him. A hint of her light, fresh fragrance teased his nose as she handed him some files.

“I’ve seen worse. Besides, the boxes help distract you from the—” she waved a hand to indicate the purple-and-gold-flocked wallpaper, the matching curtains and gold-leaf-encrusted furniture “—unusual decorating style.” Her lips twitched.

So Miss Buttoned-Up had a sense of humor.

“Yeah, it’s kinda over-the-top.” He grinned, feeling a kick of pleasure at her answering half smile. “The owner’s a young basketball phenom who’s moving to Miami. He didn’t want to give up his apartment and it suited me to rent from him.”

Maggie pulled a folder and pen from her briefcase. “We should get started. I don’t want to keep you from your guests.”

He didn’t bother to correct her assumption that he wanted to return to the party.

“Grab a seat.” He shifted some boxes from a pair of purple-and-gold silk-covered armchairs.

As she sat, Maggie’s hem hitched higher, momentarily displaying more smooth leg. She quickly straightened her skirt so it covered her knees once more.

The tantalizing glimpse sent a spike of heat through Jake. He brushed it off, annoyed. He wasn’t some long-haired dude in those romance novels his mom read, who got turned on by a nice ankle. Then why did his body tighten uncomfortably as he watched her undo those big buttons on her jacket to reveal a demure neckline? He’d been right about the creamy skin.

Focus.

Maggie put on black-framed glasses. They should have made her look worse, but they actually made her look cute. He imagined her removing them and letting down her hair like in those old movies.

Concentrate, damn it.

She turned her earnest gaze on him. “Is there anything you need me to do for you?”

Her businesslike tone should have doused the crazy feelings. But his traitorous body found another meaning to the innocent question, responding in a way that would have shocked her down to her covered toes.

Jake looked up at the mirrored ceiling with its etched gold crown motif, and tried to calm the heat raging in his groin with thoughts of ice. A great big sheet of ice.

What the hell is wrong with you? Nervous, mousy brunettes weren’t his type, even with a sexy accent—he preferred cool, confident blondes. Plus less than ten minutes ago he’d reaffirmed his decision to cut women from his life until he’d won the Cup. His focus had to be on hockey. No distractions. No exceptions.

His body obviously hadn’t got the memo.

“I want to move,” he blurted, desperate to focus on the meeting.

She frowned, surprise evident in her voice. “You just said this suited you.”

“I thought it did, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“I see.” The surprise turned to concern. “May I ask what’s wrong? Is it the location?”

Jake nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, I love Manhattan. But it’s a long, grueling season—eighty-two games from October to April, half on the road, then a play-off run that will hopefully last through June. It’d be better if I lived closer to the arena and the airport.”

“Won’t you miss everything the city has to offer?”

How did he explain that that was the point? Staying here would be a mistake. Too much temptation, too easy to get sucked back into his old lifestyle, to be distracted. When he’d rented this place, he’d been sure he could handle it. But tonight was proving otherwise. “I’ll still be able to get into the city if I need to.”