Insatiable (Unrated! Book 6) Page 7

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.

  And that was before he recognized her.

  “Oh. My. God,” he whispered, rising to step closer to the big screen. His eyes were telling him the truth—noting the familiar blond hair pulled back in a bun, those vivid blue eyes, the perfect mouth and soft face—even before his ears registered the name the sportscasters announced.

  “Vivienne Callahan,” one of them was saying. “Sources tell us she is with the Vanguard marketing team.”

  “Well, she’s certainly getting a lot of press, and maybe that was her intention,” the other guy said with an audible sneer, which just made Damien want to reach through the screen and throttle him.

  As for Neeley—well, punching him wouldn’t even begin to repay the disgusting way he’d treated Viv.

  “We’re waiting for the team to issue a statement regarding this shocking new twist in the situation that we now know involves a player and an employee. We will keep on top of this developing story.”

  A player and an employee of the Virginia Vanguard.

  Wait. A former employee of the Virginia Vanguard...because she’d been fired yesterday afternoon.

  Damien thrust a hand through his hair, trying to make sense of everything he’d just seen, and what he remembered of Viv’s conversation yesterday. One thing was sure: Viv had been assaulted, and had reacted with understandable anger. Yet the team’s general manager had fired her?

  What was it she’d said—she’d been accused of being a “distraction.” She was the subject of a bet among her male coworkers. Jesus, and what a bunch of coworkers. They were the tough, spoiled, testosterone-laden members of a professional hockey team, who’d placed a bet on who could get her into bed first.

  “Son of a bitch,” he snarled, punching the television’s off button and throwing the remote down onto the table.

  He felt sick. And not just because of what she’d gone through at the press junket, or at the hands of the team’s general manager, or at the mercy of a bunch of horny assholes who’d made her life hell for weeks.

  No. The real capper was that it was his fault. The buck ended with Damien Black.

  This team was the reason he’d come to town. It was the one thing he’d wanted for himself—aside from Black Star Hotels, the Black family, the foundation, the trust and the corporation. The Vanguard was how he’d chosen to indulge in his lifelong love of sports, his nostalgia for his college hockey days and his need to have something entirely his own.

  Damien Black was the primary stockholder in the Virginia Vanguard.

  And he’d just spent the wildest, most passionate night of his life with one of his own former employees...who had every justification in the world to sue his ass off.

  5

  ALTHOUGH VIV’S PLACE was nice, it was still just a basic one-bedroom, one-bath, with standard fixtures. Plus it was in Arlington, which had crazy-high square-footage prices. Which meant this hotel suite was about twice the size of her whole apartment and the bathroom here was bigger than her living room.

  “I’m in heaven,” she cooed as she used the soft washcloth to smooth divine-smelling gel all over her body. “I am never going to leave this shower.”

  Oh, the shower. It was one of those rainfall types, with multiple showerheads, spurting warm water on her from head to toe. It was like a summer rainfall, soft and sensuous. There was no curtain or door, just a glass-block half wall, the rest open to the remainder of the bathroom. To someone who’d grown up in a small, blue-collar Pennsylvania household with five brothers, this shower alone was like something out of a fantasy magazine or movie.

  One thing was sure—Julia Roberts’s bubble bath in Pretty Woman had absolutely nothing on this. The bathroom alone put the sin in sinful opulence. There was even a TV screen set inside the mirror, which was sort of freaky, but also very cool.

  Well, it was cool until she saw her own face in it.

  And it wasn’t her reflection.

  “No, please no!” she groaned, wishing curiosity hadn’t prompted her to flick the power on the remote as she dried off with a fluffy towel. The TV had been tuned in to a sports station, and she’d gotten a just wonderful view of herself being groped by, and then slugging, a hockey star.

  It was one thing to mentally envision the slap ending up on the news. It was another thing entirely to see it—not only the slap, but also the humiliating kiss-and-grab that had inspired it.

  She came across as an absolute idiot. Worse—like the type of woman men felt it was okay to grope. If Dale caught wind of this—confirming his own ideas about what kind of woman she was—she’d just die.

  But she was kidding herself to hope he might not. Every
body 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.”

  “I’m a distraction, remember?”

  “Only for men who have no self-control or common decency.”

  He was skilled at this comforting thing. Viv’s raging pulse began to slow, and the tension that had revved her into a live wire of energy eased. If she could just stay here, naked, close to him, with his warm hands on her hips, it might actually be possible to forget that she was the laughingstock of ESPN.

  “How am I going to leave through the lobby now?” she muttered. “And I was worried about the walk of shame before. Does this place have a rear exit?”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” he snapped. “That asshole player and bigger asshole general manager do.”

  “But somehow I’m the one the reporters are talking about.”

  Neeley’s misconduct was sure to be laughed off as boys being boys. Those men on the news hadn’t exactly talked about her as an assault victim. In fact, before she’d spun around to try to stop Damien from viewing what was on the screen, she was pretty sure she’d heard one of them speculate that the whole thing had been a PR stunt on her part.

  As if she’d let that creep grope her and stick his nasty tongue down her throat in front of a room full of people for anything.

  “God, I can’t even imagine how my family and friends are going to react.” She finally drew a deep, calming breath, and stepped away. Sweeping her hands through her wet hair, she nodded her thanks and added, “I should get out of here and start doing damage control.”

  “They announced your name. The press is going to be searching for you.”

  “Bastards. I’m not unlisted, either.”

  “So don’t let them find you.”

  “Do you suggest I go into the witness protection program?”

  “I suggest you stay right here until this blows over.”

  She’d been highly tempted before when he’d been trying to talk her in to staying. Now there was even more reason to. But Viv had never been the needy type, and she didn’t like the idea now. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Have you ever been the fox chased by hunters and hounds? You can’t even imagine how difficult the next few days will be.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth. “You really believe it will be that big a deal?”

  He nodded, solemn, those dark eyes gleaming with support and regret. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you, Viv, but the truth is, your life is going to be hell until this gets straightened out.”

  “That’s the problem,” she snapped, swinging around and grabbing a fresh towel. She wrapped it around her body, tucking it in over her breasts. “This isn’t going to get straightened out. It’s done.”

  He was shaking his head before she’d finished speaking. “No, it’s not. Not by a long shot.”

  Before she could ask what he meant, he walked toward the shower himself and turned it back on. “Our breakfast should be here any minute. Why don’t you go out and wait for it. I remembered I have to go to a meeting in a while, but you can stay here and eat, and I’ll come and join you later.”

  “You want me to hide out in your suite?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t have any clothes, not even a toothbrush.”

  He gestured toward his shaving kit. “There’s a brand-new one
in there. It’s yours.”

  Viv lifted a brow. “You travel with a spare toothbrush?”

  For whom? And how often did he give them out? Was he some kind of tooth fairy to sexy women all over the world?

  She forced those worries away. Damien wasn’t that kind of man. Even if he was, it was none of her business, anyway. She was his bar—or, parking garage—pickup. Nothing more. Even if he was being super nice this morning and trying to help her out of her mess, he’d made it clear that he didn’t do love or relationships.

  “The hotel always has a care packet waiting for these suites,” he explained. “I’ve got loads of them.”

  Feeling small, she nodded and walked to the counter, getting the toothbrush in question. “Thanks.” Then, her back to him, she smiled. “Does the hotel happen to provide thong panties in those care packages?”

  She caught his eye in the mirror. Damien had been just about to step into the shower, and he laughed as he met her stare. Something about that laughter—the twinkle in his eyes, the flash of a dimple in his cheek—chipped away at her resistance. He’d let his guard down over the hours they’d spent together. She’d never have guessed him to be a dimple owner when they’d met, and was now certain she’d never meet a dimpled man again without picturing—dreaming of—this one.

  “No, but there are some shops downstairs.”

  “None in my price range,” she said with an eye roll, having seen those shops when they’d walked through the lobby yesterday. “I’m a Dollar General girl until I get a new job.”

  “Would you just shut up and agree that you staying here is the best option?”

  Huh. So much for the charming, dimpled smile. Now he was practically glowering, reverting to the businessman who was used to getting his way.

  Frankly, Viv liked that version of Damien, too.

  “Stay, Viv. Just promise me you’ll stay, at least until I get back later and we figure out what you’re going to do next.”

  She gave it one more moment’s thought, and then slowly spun around to face him. “All right. But just...just for a little while. Maybe just until you return.”