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Playing Dirty
Taryn Leigh Taylor
A game they both want to win
Lainey Harper has never been a puck bunny. She wants nothing to do with hockey or hockey playersnot after what she’s been through. So why can’t she resist Cooper Mead?
Portland’s newest hockey star, Cooper, is all muscle and charisma. And he’s Lainey’s worst nightmare. Hooking up with him would bring back memories that Lainey needs to keep buried. And risk the hard-earned anonymity she’s sacrificed everything to protect.
When Lainey finally gives in to Cooper’s sexy charm, the chemistry’s intensebut so is the media exposure. And now Lainey’s got even more to lose than her secretshe’s got Cooper.
A game they both want to win
Lainey Harper has never been a puck bunny. She wants nothing to do with hockey or hockey players—not after what she’s been through. So why can’t she resist Cooper Mead?
Portland’s newest hockey star, Cooper, is all muscle and charisma. And he’s Lainey’s worst nightmare. Hooking up with him would bring back memories that Lainey needs to keep buried. And risk the hard-earned anonymity she’s sacrificed everything to protect.
When Lainey finally gives in to Cooper’s sexy charm, the chemistry’s intense—but so is the media exposure. And now Lainey’s got even more to lose than her secret—she’s got Cooper.
“Need me to do anything else?”
Cooper walked out the back room like he owned the place.
Lainey hated that she noticed his body. That she wanted to run her fingers across the muscles she’d pretended not to notice.
Because that way lay madness.
That way lay hockey.
“What’s your game here, Slick?”
“What the hell do you want me to say?”
His genuine surprise pissed her off more. Because she’d promised herself she was done with hockey. With hockey players.
She pulled him down until their mouths were practically touching.
“I don’t want you to say anything.” Lainey caught Cooper’s bottom lip between her teeth. Oh, God, he felt good. Big. Strong. Like he could handle what she was dishing out tonight.
She wanted sex. She wanted to punish him for making her feel this way. For making her want things she couldn’t have.
Dear Reader (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b),
Well, it’s the end of an era. My last Harlequin Blaze. And I can’t think of a better book to cap off my hat trick.
As a former hockey player, I always knew I wanted to write a hockey-playing heroine, and Lainey was the perfect mix of heart and grit to keep Cooper in line, on the ice and in the bedroom...and the bar...and the parking garage. *wink*
My time with Blaze has been a dream come true from start to finish, and I’ve gotten to work with so many talented people along the way. From cover art to copy edits to moral support, every single person who has touched my books has made them better, and I thank them for that.
And I thank you, too. For taking a chance on a new author, and for choosing to spend your valuable time and resources on the stories I tell. You’re the best. The absolute best. I couldn’t do this without you.
To show my appreciation, I present to you a tale of snarky banter and sexy times.
And don’t be a stranger, okay? When you’re done reading, come find me inside your computer or smartphone at tarynleightaylor.com (http://tarynleightaylor.com), Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (http://Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and @tarynltaylor (http://twitter.com/tarynltaylor). We can be cyber BFFs.
Keep on dreaming out loud,
Taryn Leigh Taylor
Playing Dirty
Taryn Leigh Taylor
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
TARYN LEIGH TAYLOR likes dinosaurs, bridges and space, both personal and of the final-frontier variety. She shamelessly indulges in clichés, most notably her Starbucks addiction (grande six-pump whole-milk no-water chai-tea latte, aka: the usual), her shoe hoard (I can stop anytime I... Ooh! These are pretty!) and her penchant for falling in lust with fictional men with great abs. She also really loves books, which was what sent her down the crazy path of writing one in the first place.
Want to be virtual friends? Check out tarynleightaylor.com (http://www.tarynleightaylor.com), Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1 (http://www.Facebook.com/tarynltaylor1) and Twitter, @tarynltaylor (http://www.twitter.com/tarynltaylor).
Fay—Thank you for your opinion. (I know it’s funnier if I leave it at that, but honestly, I couldn’t do what I do without your help. If I could sum you up in emoji form, you’d be all four thumbs up and the winky face. And you know that’s the highest praise I can bestow.)
Liz—Writing this book without you would be like seeing Mulder sans hideous tie—unthinkable. (Unless he’s wearing a Speedo.)
This book is for Jenn, Neil, Brad, Lora and Yvette, Craig and Leila—y’all cheer for the wrong hockey teams, but your friendship and support mean the world.
Contents
Cover (#u5e6bcb3e-b2a3-5fc7-9445-f4783fb216ee)
Back Cover Text (#ub339726a-67b1-522e-a0a6-fe5eed1cb029)
Introduction (#u6826f38c-5280-55f5-9f6d-fd5bf620bff9)
Dear Reader (#u20ddadbe-b000-58f5-b4b9-54e5f3e35895)
Title Page (#u6160ca49-b776-5ef9-ac79-874852f18533)
About the Author (#u72f14f06-5e2f-5438-8d05-93d510480ab6)
Dedication (#u69803d32-e9bb-59b0-9b0f-8008507ce979)
Chapter 1 (#uffcb6e61-e319-5d27-b95a-c5c6aa646745)
Chapter 2 (#u0ef67fff-3e0f-59c6-9695-b50745bf8da7)
Chapter 3 (#u3f402330-8bae-5f49-806c-dc0b0f10429f)
Chapter 4 (#u7a815965-1beb-5f70-a61b-f8d5afa060ce)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#u4ed741de-de81-5135-aea4-36347f24b72b)
“IT’S ABOUT DAMN time you got here, Darius. I know my fa—I know Martin wasn’t much for punctuality, but if you want to keep working here, you’re going to have to show up on time.”
Lainey kicked the beer fridge closed and froze, as though the act had triggered a curse that turned her to stone. In truth, though, her paralysis was directly attributable to the animal magnetism of the man on the other side of the counter.
Black hair just long enough to curl against his collar?
Check.
Dark stubble framing a smirking mouth?
Check.
Muscled arms that could make angels weep and women purr?
Check and check.
“You’re...” Cooper Mead, number sixteen, the Portland Storm’s latest acquisition, currently tied for highest scoring defenseman in the league. “Not Darius.”
“Nope.” The single syllable, deep and rough, was enough to detonate an estrogen grenade low in her tummy.
Dammit.
Cooper freakin’ Mead! Standing in Martin’s crappy little sports bar—her crappy little sports bar now, she reminded herself. And boy, was he something to behold. All six feet two inches and 220 pounds of him, per the team stats page. Lainey cursed the lapse in internet browsing judgment that had led to that knowledge. She hadn’t watched hockey, talked hockey, thought of hockey in years, but in the three months since she’d come back to Portland, the nadir of all her broken dreams and bad luck, she was already falling into bad habits.
And Cooper Mead was the kind of bad habit that would be hard to break.
With great effort, Lainey beat back the hormonal fallout and cast a wary glance around the bar. Oregon might be a long way from Denmark, but something here was definitely rotten.
The Drunken Sportsman wasn’t the type of place that attracted professional athletes. Hell, some weeks it barely attracted enough armchair athletes to keep the lights on and the doors open.
Right now, there were two groups of them, a middle-aged couple sporting his and hers Trail Blazers T-shirts and eating nachos in the booth farthest from the door, and four guys at a table by the window who were stretching a pitcher of beer as far as it could go while staring zombie-like at the basketball pregame coverage on the hulking television above the bar.
She needed to replace it with a couple of flat screens spread around the room for more optimal viewing. She made a mental note to add that to her list and turned back to the defensive juggernaut who stood across from her.
Other than him, there was nothing—and no one—out of place. And yet something about the situation had her on edge. She glanced at Cooper Mead’s wicked mouth, the corner quirked up in a grin that did weird things to her insides.
Maybe I’m allergic to hockey.
Squaring her shoulders, Lainey strove for professionalism in the form of the official bartender’s mantra. “So, not-Darius, what’ll it be?”
“How about Sex on the Beach and a Screaming Orgasm?”
No.
Don’t say it, she thought with a desperation that surprised her. Please don’t go there.
A flicker of indecision crossed his handsome face, one that gave her hope that her telepathy had worked. Then he turned on that easy grin, bracing an arm on the bar and leaning closer.
“But if I’m going to do my best work,” he confided in a soft growl that prickled between her shoulder blades, “I’ll probably need something to drink first.”
Aaaand he went there.
“Good one. Very original. You’d think, with me being a bartender and all, I would’ve heard that one before.” She forced herself not to roll her eyes. If getting hit on in bars had taught her anything, it was that derision had more impact when delivered with some restraint. It was important not to cross into “the lady doth protest too much” territory or the playboys and the drunks would never leave you alone.
In response, he upped the wattage of his smile and reached over the bar to liberate a maraschino cherry from the fruit caddy.
“Sarcasm. Nice. You’re feisty. I like that.” He popped the pointedly sexual fruit in his mouth and chewed. “But in my defense, it’s not the small-talk portion of the evening I excel at. Give me your number and I’ll prove it to you.”
Lainey wanted to be offended, she really did, but damned if his megalomania wasn’t working for him, in a basic “the hormones want what the hormones want” kind of way. Still, a woman had to have standards.
“Listen, I appreciate the display of manly bravado, but as much as I’d like to stand here and fend off your advances, I’ve got a drink quota to maintain. You actually want something, or are you just here to waste my time?” Lainey crossed her arms over her white tank top. Cooper Mead wasn’t the only talented defenseman here. Her nickname hadn’t been “The Ice Queen” for nothing.
The memory came out of nowhere, like a slap shot to her brain—fast, powerful, and it hurt like a bitch. Her pulse thundered in her right wrist, the one she’d busted in the last hockey game she’d ever played, and she shook her hand to dislodge the sensation. No one had referred to her by her old hockey nickname in ages. The fact that she’d been the one to break that streak said a lot.
One more reason she couldn’t let her guard down. She needed to fix up the bar, sell it for a tidy profit and get the hell out of Portland back to the fabulous, hockey-less life she’d built for herself. The sooner, the better.
