The Globalist - John Walsh

Скачать книгу

of the net with a jolt. She would have dropped her camera if the strap hadn’t been around her neck.

      “I tried to tell you.” Jason put his hand on her back and massaged the point where she had banged into the bar.

      Claire tried not to think about the further pain he was causing.

      “I’m beginning to think you need me more than you realize.” He slowly rubbed her shoulder blades.

      Claire’s head shot up. “Just because I banged into the net doesn’t mean I need you. And you can stop rubbing now. I didn’t do that much damage.”

      “Ah, you don’t know how much damage you’ve already done. In any case, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

      “Something else?” She felt a strange letdown when Jason removed his hand.

      “Yes, not only do you ride a motorcycle, you also skate backward. As it turns out, these are two of my requirements for a wife. And I must say, you pass with flying colors.”

      “You’re joking, right?”

      Jason grinned over his shoulder and started to glide away. “Oh, by the way. My keys?”

      Claire swore under her breath. She fished into her jeans’ pocket and tossed them underhand. He caught them with an easy swipe and skated away, only to stop and return in a long slow arc.

      “Yes?” She scowled as he slid in close. Again, too close.

      He lifted one hand.

      She watched his hand come close to her face. Then closer. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

      With a gentle swipe of his index finger, Jason brushed the corner of her mouth. She flinched. Felt her lips tingle and her tongue turn dry. Gulping was impossible. Inhaling only slightly more doable. He had to know how awkward she was feeling.

      Jason smiled broadly. He knew. “Powdered sugar.”

      Claire’s eyes widened. “Powdered sugar?”

      Jason brought his index finger to his mouth and slowly tasted it. “Yup, definitely powdered sugar. Must have been that donut you were eating when I first rolled up.” He looked down, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

      The photographer in Claire leapt to take the pose.

      The woman in her was paralyzed.

      “And by the way, Claire Marsden,” Jason said lazily over his shoulder as he skated off for a second time. “That was no joke.”

      Claire slowly brought her hand to her face and touched the corner of her open mouth. Her skin was hot, incredibly hot. She couldn’t possibly be blushing. She never blushed. But then she’d never been touched by a demon on skates, either.

      3

      CLAIRE PACED in front of Trish. “You let me go through that whole shoot with powdered sugar on my face!”

      “You told him I needed a fiancé?” Trish responded. She darted her head around to see if they were being overheard. She had all the subtlety of a silent film star. The closest person was Elaine. She was over by the bench, talking with the straggly bearded techie. He somehow didn’t seem her type. “Jason probably thinks I’m pathetic.”

      “Trust me. He doesn’t think you’re pathetic.” Claire remembered the appreciative look Jason had shown Trish as they got off the ice. Trish, who was looking so together, so sleek. While she, Claire, had a drippy nose and freezing, cramped toes. Sniffling and hobbling—she sounded like two of the Seven Dwarfs. And that’s when she remembered she still had on the skates.

      She sat and began yanking them off. “I don’t know why you think anyone would think you’re pathetic. You weren’t the one tripping over her own two feet on the ice, all the while having this white glob on your face. Why didn’t you tell me?” Claire yanked off the second skate and looked around for her boots.

      Trish crossed her arms. “Why so touchy about a little bit of sugar on your face? Frankly, I didn’t even notice.”

      Claire found one work boot and pulled it on. She didn’t bother to lace it up. “That’s because your eyes were elsewhere.” Claire got on her hands and knees and started scouting under the bench for her other boot.

      “He is rather attractive, isn’t he? One could do far worse in the fiancé category. In fact, it might be something worth contemplating seriously—in a very preliminary stage, of course.”

      Claire heard the flirtatious lilt to Trish’s voice as she scrounged around on the rubber flooring for her lost boot. Her hand touched something sticky. She didn’t want to think about the possibilities.

      “So what did he say?”

      “About what?” In the dank, dark recesses under the first row of permanent seating, Claire located her boot. It was pushed against the cement riser.

      “You know, about pretending to be my fiancé at the wedding?” Trish must have bent down because her voice was louder.

      Claire shimmied out backward, deciding the safest route out was the same way she’d come in. She dragged the boot behind her. “We never got that far. Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Her derriere emerged from the deep abyss.

      “Ask me what?”

      Claire banged the back of her head on the bottom of a metal seat. She dropped her boot and it tumbled into the great netherworld of discarded chewing gum and Raisinets. No doubt Jason was looking down at her rear end as she hesitated on all fours. She could crawl back under. But then there was that mysterious sticky goo.

      “You need a hand?” Jason’s voice was louder, nearer. Much nearer.

      In the shadowy darkness under the seats, Claire sensed immediately that he had joined her. She felt the ripples of energy that emanated from his body. If only he’d thought to bring a flashlight. “No need to bother. I’m fine, thank you.”

      “The lady doth protest too much.”

      “And the jock knows a literary line or two. I’m impressed. But truly, I wouldn’t advise scrounging around here unless you’ve had a recent tetanus shot. Besides, I’m just looking for my boot. I had it a minute ago and I seem to have lost it again.” Claire groped with her hand. She landed on something. It definitely wasn’t sticky. And it definitely wasn’t her boot.

      It was large. It was strong. Sinews ridged the skin. Knuckles defined the contours. Fingers slightly curled; nails blunt cut. And there wasn’t the hint of a wedding ring. It was power at rest. But it hardly made Claire feel restful.

      “Whoops, sorry about that.” Claire turned her head.

      “Don’t be. It could happen to anyone.” In the darkness he moved his head toward hers. He shifted his hand.

      His movement caused Claire to realize that her hand was still on his. “Oh, sorry.” She started to pull it away, but he switched grips, holding her fingers lightly.

      The sudden dizziness enveloping her head had to be due to the awkward position she was in, Claire told herself. She cleared her throat, if not her brain functions. “I think my boot may be over by your hand.”

      She leaned awkwardly in that direction. And felt her mouth brush his cheek.

      Jason turned. His lips accidentally touched hers.

      His lips pressed lightly. Maybe not an accident? It was brief. Lips ever so slightly parted. Warm breaths and tumbling heartbeats mixing.

      And it was the most mind-numbing experience of Claire’s life. And it was happening under the seat of a hockey rink.

      “You guys all right down there?”

      Trish’s voice penetrated the haze of emotions that engulfed Claire. She felt Jason’s hand tighten briefly

Скачать книгу