Maverick Millionaires: Trapped with the Maverick Millionaire / Pregnant by the Maverick Millionaire / Married to the Maverick Millionaire

One

Ten or so years later...

Rory made her way to a small table by the window in the crowded cafeteria of St. Catherine’s Hospital, juggling a stack of files, her bag and a large blueberry smoothie. Dumping the files on the table, she took a berry-flavored hit before pulling out a chair and dropping into it. She’d been on the go since before seven, had missed lunch and was now running on fumes. She had two more patients to see. She might be able to get home before eight.

An early night. Bliss.

Her cell phone chimed and Rory squinted at the display, smiling when she saw her sister’s name.

“Sorry, something just came up. I’ll call you right back,” Shay stated before disconnecting.

Rory smiled, grateful that she and Shay were really close, a minor miracle after the McCaskill incident. Mac running his mouth off and his subsequent breakup with Shay had been the first major media storm involving one of the three most famous Mavericks. It had been the catalyst for the city’s fascination with anything to do with Mac, Quinn and Kade.

Shay had been swept up into the madness; she’d been stalked and hassled by reporters and photographers for months. Her life had been a living hell. Unfortunately, because she refused to talk to Rory, Shay had weathered the media attention by herself. She’d lost weight and, as Rory had found out years later, she’d come close to a breakdown. Rory was so grateful the incident was solidly behind them; the man-slut captain of the Mavericks professional ice hockey team was not worth losing sleep, never mind a sister, over.

Except that she did, frequently, still lose sleep thinking about him. Rory sighed. He was her fantasy man, the man she always thought of when she was alone and well, she hated to admit it...horny. She wondered and she imagined and the fact that she did either—both—annoyed the pants off her.

The jerk.

Her cell rang again, Rory answered and Shay said a quick hello. “Sorry, as you picked up the delivery guy arrived.”

“No worries, what’s up?”

“Dane sent me two dozen red roses.”

And, judging by Shay’s frantic voice, this was a problem? “Okay, lucky you. Why are you freaking out?”

“Two dozen red roses? Who sends his wife of eight months two dozen red roses? He must be cheating on me.”

Here we go again, Rory thought, exasperated. I haven’t had enough coffee to cope with Shay’s insecurities. Thanks again, Dad, for the incredible job you did messing up your daughters’ love lives.

Rory sucked on her straw musing about the fact that she and Shay had different approaches to life and love. She was closed off to the idea of handing her heart over to a man, yet Shay had never given up on love. She had eventually, she was convinced, caught the last good guy in the city. The fact that Dane was calm and strong enough to deal with Shay’s insecurities made Rory love him more.

“He must be having an affair. Nobody can work as much as he does,” Shay fretted.

“Shay! Princess!” Rory interrupted her mumblings. “Stop obsessing, you’re getting yourself into a state. You’re a gorgeous blonde ex-model and you still look like a million dollars. Dane married you and you promised to trust him.”

Shay sighed. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Look at your wedding photos. Look at how he’s looking at you...like you’re the moon and stars and everything that’s perfect.” In spite of her cynicism when it came to romance, Rory couldn’t help feeling a little jealous every time Dane looked at her sister, love blazing from his eyes. What must it feel like to have someone love you that much, someone so determined to make you happy? Logically, she knew the risk wasn’t worth it, but...damn, seeing that look punched her in the heart every time.

“Dane is in the middle of a big case—some gang shooting, remember? And he’s the homicide detective in charge—and sending you roses is his way of reminding you that he loves you.”

“So, no affair?”

“No affair, Shay.” And if there was—there wasn’t!—but if there was then Rory would take Dane’s own weapon and shoot him with it.

Rory said goodbye to her sister, shot off a text to Dane suggesting Shay might need a little extra attention—she and her brother-in-law worked as a team to keep Shay’s insecurities from driving them both nuts—and looked down at the folders. She needed to make notes and read over the files of the two patients she was about to see.

She so wanted her own practice. Craydon’s Physiotherapy patients were channeled through the system like cans on a conveyor line. There was little time for proper one-on-one care and she was providing patients with only enough treatment to see them through to the next session. Sometimes she wondered if she was doing any good at all.

If she had her own place, she’d slow it down, take more time, do some intensive therapy. But setting up a new practice required cash she didn’t have, premises she couldn’t afford. She’d just have to keep saving... Maybe one day.

She had barely looked over the first file when her cell rang again. This time it was a number she did not recognize. She answered the call with a cautious hello.

“Rory? Kade Webb, from the Vancouver Mavericks. We met a long time ago.”

Kade Webb? Why on earth would he be calling her? “I remember...hi. What can I do for you?”

Kade didn’t waste time beating around the bush. “I have a player in St. Catherine’s, in The Annex Clinic, and I’d like you to take a look at his chart, assess his injury and tell me what you think.”

Rory frowned, thinking fast. “Kade, the Mavericks have a resident physiotherapist. I know because my bosses would kill for the Mavericks’ contract. Why me?”

“Because you have an excellent track record in treating serious sports injuries,” Kade replied. “Will you do it? Take a look and let me know what you think?”

“I—”

“Thanks. I’ll call you back in a couple of hours.”

Rory wanted to tell him that she had patients, that it was against company policy, but he was gone. Argh! She had questions, dammit! Who was the player? What room he was in? Did he know that she was coming? Had Kade spoken to her bosses about this?

Infuriating man, she thought as she stood up and gathered her possessions. It was said that Kade, like his two partners in crime, could charm the dew off roses and the panties off celibates. He hadn’t bothered to use any of that charm on her, Rory thought with an annoyed toss of her head.

Not that she would’ve responded to it, but it would’ve been nice for him to try.

* * *

Mac McCaskill, you stupid idiot, Rory thought.

She’d had many variations of the thought over the past decade, some expressed in language a lot more colorful, but the sentiment was the same. However, this was the first time in nearly a decade that she wasn’t mocking his tendency to jump from one gorgeous woman to another or shaking her head over the fact that he was, essentially, a man-slut.

As much as his social life irritated her, she felt sorry for him. He was an exceptionally talented player and as she looked at the notes on his chart, she realized his arm was, to use nontechnical terms, wrecked. For a player of his caliber that was a very scary situation.

“Rory, what are you doing in here?”

Rory, standing next to Mac’s bed, flipped a glance over her shoulder and smiled, relieved, when she saw her best friend stepping into Mac’s private room. If it had been someone other than Troy she would’ve had to explain herself.

This was all kinds of wrong, she thought. There were protocols around patient visits and she shouldn’t be in Mac’s room, looking at his chart, assessing his injury. She should’ve refused Kade’s request, but here she was again, flouting the rules. What was it about McCaskill that made her do that?

“I need to get the mat on him, need to get his circulation restored as soon as possible,” she said with urgency.

As a therapist, she wanted the best for him. Even if he was the man who’d hurt her sister. Even if her heart rate still kicked up from just looking at him.

“You’re not authorized to treat him and if you’re caught we’ll both be fired.” Troy closed the door behind him, his handsome face creased with worry.

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Rory retorted. “It’s his arm, Troy. The arm he needs to slap those pucks into the net at ninety miles an hour.”

“Mac usually reaches speeds of a hundred plus miles an hour,” Troy, the sports fanatic, corrected her, as she’d counted on him doing.

“Exactly and the mat will start helping immediately,” Rory retorted.

“Jobs, fired, on the streets,” Troy muttered. Yet he didn’t protest when she pulled a mat from her bag and placed the control box it was connected to on Mac’s bedside table. When the lights brightened, she very gently wrapped the mat around Mac’s injured arm. He didn’t stir and Rory relaxed; he was solidly asleep and would be for a while.

Troy was right to worry. Earlier, she’d hesitated and had stood outside of his room, debating whether to go in. Partly because of that almost-kiss years ago, partly because she knew she shouldn’t be there, despite Kade’s request.

The bottom line was that Mac was a sportsman who needed her expertise and her mat. It was crucial to get his blood flowing through the damaged capillaries to start the healing process. The longer she delayed, the longer he would take to recover. Healing, helping, was what she did, who she was, and she’d fight the devil himself to give a patient what he needed, when he needed it.

Besides, there was little chance of her being discovered in Mac’s room. The Annex Clinic was an expensive, private ward attached to St. Catherine’s, the hospital situated in the exclusive Vancouver suburb of West Point Gray. Every patient admitted into The Annex had two things in common: they were ridiculously wealthy and they wanted total privacy. Each patient had their own private nurse, and Rory had lucked out because Troy was assigned to room 22.

Not only would he keep her interference a secret, but because he was in the room with her, Rory resisted the urge to run her hand through Mac’s thick hair, over his strong jaw shaded with stubble.

He looked as good as he had years ago. Maybe better.

His beard was dark but when he grew it out, it glinted red in the sun. As did his dark brown hair. The corners of his eyes had creases that weren’t there a decade ago. He looked, if she ignored his bandaged arm, stronger, fitter and more ripped than he had at twenty-four.

She was a professional, she reminded herself, and she shouldn’t be mentally drooling over the man.

“How did you even know he was admitted?” Troy demanded.

“Are you sure he’s asleep?” she asked Troy, ignoring his question.

“Morphine. He was in severe pain and it was prescribed.” Troy looked at his watch. “Getting back to my point, he only came out of surgery two hours ago and was injured no more than six hours ago. How did you know he was here?”

Rory stood back from the bed and pushed her hands into her lower back as she stretched and explained that Kade, who’d taken on the CEO responsibilities and duties when the owner/manager of the Vancouver Mavericks died, had called and asked her to check on Mac and give her professional opinion.

Troy frowned, worried. “Which is?”

“It’s bad, Troy.”

Troy swore and Rory knew his disappointment and concern would be shared by most of the residents of Vancouver, Mavericks and Canucks fans alike. Mac was a hell of a player and respected for his leadership and skill. Maverick fans would be devastated to lose their captain for a couple of matches. To lose him for the season would be a disaster. Losing him forever would be a tragedy. But she’d treated enough sport stars to know the impact of his injury, both physical and emotional, would be tremendous.

“How did the surgery go?” Rory asked Troy.

“Good.” Troy cleared his throat. “We really could get fired, Rorks. Even though I know the voodoo blanket helps, it’s still a form of treatment and you’re not authorized. I like my job.”

Rory knew he was right, but she still rolled her eyes at her best friend. “As I’ve explained to you a million times before, the blanket is not voodoo! It sends electromagnetic signals that stimulate the pumping of the smallest blood vessels. It will help normalize the circulation in this injured area. Kade asked me to be here. He’ll work it out. It’ll be okay, Troy.”

When Troy narrowed his bright green eyes, Rory looked away. “This will run for the next thirty minutes,” she said. “Why don’t you go get some coffee?”

She needed to be alone with Mac, to get her thoughts—and her reaction to him—under control.

“Ok, I’ll be back in thirty.”

Troy sent her a worried smile and left the room. When the door closed behind him, she turned back to Mac and couldn’t resist the impulse to place her hand on his chest, directly over his heart. Under the thin cotton of the hospital gown she felt the warmth of his skin.

She kept her hand there, trying not to wish she could run it over his hard stomach, down the thick biceps of his uninjured arm. He was so big, his body a testament to a lifetime dedicated to professional sports, to being the hardest, toughest, fastest player on the ice.

She glanced toward the end of the bed at his chart. Reading the chicken scrawl again wouldn’t change a damn thing. Essentially, Mac had pulled a tendon partly off the bone and injured a ligament. The surgeons doubted he’d regain his former strength anytime soon, if ever.

That would kill him. Even in the short time they’d known each other, she’d understood that hockey was what Mac did, who he was. He’d dedicated the last fourteen years to the Mavericks. He was their star player, their leader, the reason fans filled the arena week after week. He was their hope, their idol, the public face of the well-oiled machine Kade managed.

With his crooked smile, his aloof but charming manner and incredible prowess on the ice, he was the city’s favorite, regularly appearing in the press, usually with a leggy blonde on his arm. Speculating about when one of the Mavericks Triumvirate—Mac, their captain, Kade as CEO and Quinn as Acting Coach (the youngest in the NHL but widely respected) were all hot and single—would fall in love and settle down was a citywide pastime.

A part of him belonged to the city but Rory doubted that anyone, besides his best friends, knew him. From that time so long ago she knew that Mac, for all his charm, was a closed book. Very little was known about his life before he was recruited to play for the Mavericks. Even Shay hadn’t known more than what was public knowledge: he was raised by a single mother who died when he was nineteen, he was a scholarship kid and he didn’t talk about his past.

They had that in common. Rory didn’t talk about her past either.

Rory adjusted the settings on the control box and Mac shifted in his sleep, releasing a small pain-filled moan. He would hate to know that she’d heard him, she thought. Mac, she remembered, had loathed being sick. He’d played with a broken finger, flu, a sprained ankle, a hurt knee. He’d play through plagues of locusts and an asteroid strike.

Rory looked at his injured arm and sighed. He wouldn’t be able to play through this. How was she supposed to tell Kade that?

A big, hot hand touched her throat and a thumb stroked her jaw. Her brain shut down when he touched her and, just like she had in Shay’s kitchen, she couldn’t help responding. She allowed her head to snuggle into his hand as he slowly opened his eyes and focused on her face. His fabulous eyes, the deep, dark blue of old-fashioned bottled ink, met hers.

“Hey,” he croaked.

“Hey back,” Rory whispered, her fingers digging into the skin on his chest. She should remove herself but, once again, she stayed exactly where she was.

So nothing much had changed then. She hadn’t grown up at all.

“They must have given me some powerful drugs because you seem so damn real.”

Rory shuddered as his thumb brushed over her bottom lip. He thought he was imagining her, she realized.

“Helluva dream... God, you’re so beautiful.” Mac’s hand drifted down her throat over her collarbone. His fingers trailed above the cotton of her tunic to rest on the slight swell of her breast. His eyes, confused and pain-filled, stayed on her face, tracing her features and drinking her in.

Then he heaved in a sigh and the blue deepened to midnight. “My arm is on fire.”

“I know, Mac.” Rory touched his hair, then his cheek, and her heart double-tapped when he turned his face into her palm, as if seeking comfort. She tried to pull her hand away but Mac slapped his hand on hers to keep her palm against his cheek. Everyone, even the big, bold Mac, needed support, a human connection. At the moment she was his.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

What should she say? She didn’t want to lie to him, but she had no right to talk to him about his injuries. She shouldn’t even be here. “You’ll be okay, Mac. No matter what, you’ll be okay.”

Pain—the deep, dark, emotional kind—jumped into his eyes. His hand moved to her wrist and he pulled her down until her chest rested on his. Her mouth was a quarter inch from his. God, this was so wrong. She shouldn’t be doing this. Despite those thoughts ricocheting through her head she couldn’t help the impulse to feel those lips under hers, to taste him.

Just once to see if the reality measured up to her imagination.

This would be the perfect time, the only time, to find out. She could stop wondering and move the hell past him, past the kiss they’d never shared.

There was no one in the room with them. Nobody would ever know.

His injured state hadn’t affected his skills, Rory thought as he took control of the kiss, tipping her head to achieve the precise angle he wanted. His tongue licked its way into her mouth, nipping here, sliding there. Then their tongues met and electricity rocketed through her as she sank into him.

It was all she’d dreamed about. And a lot more.

Rory had no idea how long the kiss lasted. She was yanked back to the present when Mac hissed in pain. Stupid girl! He’d had surgery only hours before! He was in a world of hurt. Mac, she noticed, just lay there, his hand on her thigh and his eyes closed. He was so still. Had he fallen back to sleep? Rory looked down at his big tanned hand and licked her top lip, tasting him there.

It had been just two mouths meeting, tongues dancing, but his kisses could move mountains, part seas, redesign constellations. It had been that powerful. Kissing Mac was an out-of-body experience.

The universe knew what it was doing by keeping them apart. She wasn’t looking for a man and she certainly wasn’t looking for a man like Mac. Too big, too bold, too confident. A celebrity who had never heard of the word monogamy.

He was exactly what she didn’t need. Unfaithful. She was perfectly content to fly solo, she reminded herself.

The machine beeped to tell her the program had ended, and Rory started to stand up. The hand squeezing her thigh kept her in place. When she looked at Mac, his eyes were still closed but the corners of his mouth kicked up into a cocky smile.

“Best dream ever,” he said before slipping back into sleep.

Two

He’d been dreaming of Rory, something he hadn’t done in years, Mac realized as he surfaced out of a pain-saturated sleep. She’d been sitting cross-legged on his bed, her silver-gray eyes dancing. Wide smile, firm breasts, golden-brown hair that was so long, he remembered, that it flirted with her butt...five foot three of petite perfection.

In his dream he’d been French-kissing her and it had felt...man...amazing! Slow, hot, sexy—what a kiss should really be. Okay, he’d had far too many drugs if he was obsessing about a girl he’d wanted to kiss a lifetime ago. Mac shoved his left hand through his hair before pushing himself up using the same hand, trying but failing to ignore the slamming pain in his other arm as he moved.

This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Half lying, half sitting, he closed his eyes and fought the nausea gathering in his throat. Dimly aware of people entering his private hospital room, he fought the pain, pushed down the nausea and concentrated on those silver eyes he’d seen in his dream. The way her soft lips felt under his...

He had been dreaming, right?

“Do you need something for the pain, Mr. McCaskill?”

Mac jerked fully awake and looked into the concerned face of a guy a few years younger than him.

“I’m Troy Hunter, your nurse,” he said. “So, some meds? You’re due.”

“Hell yes,” Mac muttered. He usually hated drugs but he slowly rolled onto his good side, presenting his butt to be jabbed as Kade and Quinn walked into the room. “Hey, guys.”

Troy glanced at Mac’s visitors with his mouth dropped open, looking like any other fan did when the three of them were together...awestruck.

Tall and rock solid, in both stature and personality, Mac wasn’t surprised to see Kade and Quinn and so soon after his surgery. They were his friends, his onetime roommates, his colleagues...his family. They were, in every way that counted, his brothers.

After giving him the injection, Troy pulled up Mac’s shorts and stood back to look at him, his face and tone utterly professional. “Let’s get you sorted out. I need to do my boring nurse stuff and then I’ll leave you to talk.” He looked more closely at Mac. “You look uncomfortable.”

Mac nodded. He was half lying and half sitting but the thought of moving made him break out in a cold sweat. “Yeah, I am.”

“I can remedy that.” Troy, with surprising ease and gentleness for a man who was six-three and solid, maneuvered Mac into a position he could live with. While Troy wound a blood pressure cuff around Mac’s arm, Kade sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the bed, his expression serious.

“We would appreciate your discretion as to Mac’s condition,” he told Troy. That voice, not often employed, usually had sponsors, players and random citizens scattering.

Troy, to his credit, didn’t look intimidated. “I don’t talk about my patients. Ever.”

Kade stared at Troy for a long time before nodding once. “Thank you.”

They waited in silence until Troy left the room and then Kade turned to him and let out a stream of profanity.

Here it comes, Mac thought, resigned.

“What were you thinking, trying to move that fridge yourself? One call and one of us would’ve been there to help you!”

Mac shrugged. “It wasn’t that heavy. It started to fall and I tried to catch it.”

“Why the hell can’t you just ask for help?” Quinn demanded. “It’s serious, Mac, career-ending serious.”

Mac felt the blood in his face drain away. When he could speak, he pushed the words out between dry lips. “That bad, huh?”

Kade looked as white as Mac imagined himself to be. “That bad.”

“Physiotherapy?” Mac demanded.

“An outside chance at best,” Quinn answered him. He didn’t sugarcoat his words, and Mac appreciated it. He needed the truth.

Kade spoke again. “We’ve found someone to work with you. She’s reputed to be the best at sports rehabilitation injuries.”

Neither of his friends met his eyes, and his heart sank to his toes. He knew that look, knew that he wouldn’t like what was coming next.

“Who? Nurse Ratched?” he joked.

“Rory Kydd,” Kade told him, his face impassive.

“Rory? What?” he croaked, not liking the frantic note in his voice. It was bad enough seeing Rory in his dreams but being her patient would mean hitting the seventh level of hell.

There was a reason why he never thought of her, why he’d obliterated that day from his memory. He’d publicly humiliated himself and the world had seen him at his worst. Rory’d had a front-row seat to the behind-the-scenes action.