One Man Rush

“My price is a date with you, Marissa.”

Marissa gazed up at Kyle and slowly shook her head. “I can’t. What kind of matchmaker would swoop in and take the prize catch for herself? No client would ever trust me again.”

Upping his game, Kyle raised a finger to her upturned face and sketched a soft stroke down the length of her throat.

Her eyelids fluttered, her lips parting of their own accord.

“What are we doing?” she whispered helplessly, clutching his shoulders as if she were hanging on for dear life.

“Being impulsive.” He licked his way into the curve of her shoulder and she shivered. “Isn’t it the best?”

“I’m not impulsive,” she said, even as she arched her neck to give him more room to work.

He ran his tongue along that same spot over and over until she trembled again.

“You are now.”

Dear Reader,

As if being married to a former sports editor didn’t fill my life with enough sports talk, I’m also raising three highly competitive sons. Team sports fill my days and reviewing game film often occupies our time between game days. It’s a fun family pastime and has given me lots of insight into all kinds of sports. I’ve written baseball players for Blaze in Double Play and Sliding Into Home. But my new series takes me to the world of hockey—which some readers may recall I touched on in Date with a Diva.

Welcome to “Double Overtime,” where hockey reigns supreme and hot athletes abound. What makes the stories all the more fun is the connection to the Murphy family, which I introduced in my WRONG BED books, Making a Splash and Riding the Storm. The Murphys are a family of five brothers and their foster brother, Axel, who gets a story next month in Her Man Advantage.

I sure hope you’ll enjoy these sports heroes as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. Most of all, thank you for picking up one of my books and giving me the chance to share a story with you!

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

About the Author

The mother of three sports-minded sons, JOANNE ROCK has found her primary occupation to be carting kids to practices and cheering on their athletic prowess at any number of sporting events. In the windows of time between football games, she loves to write and cheer on happily-ever-afters. A three-time RITA® Award nominee, Joanne is an author of more than fifty books for a variety of series. She has been an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee and multiple Reviewers’ Choice finalist, including a nomination for The Captive Best Blaze of 2010. Her work has been reprinted in twenty-six countries and translated into nineteen languages. Over two million copies of her books are in print. For more information on Joanne’s books, visit www.joannerock.com.

One Man Rush

Joanne Rock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my sons, Taylor, Camden and Maxim.

Thank you for the love, the laughs, and for

occasionally cleaning your rooms.

I could not be more proud of you boys!

1

MARISSA COLLINS WAS IN the market for a man. A tall, dark and gorgeous man. In fact, she’d set her sights on Philadelphia’s most wanted eligible bachelor.

Snagging that kind of prize target might intimidate most women. But since her work as a personal matchmaker had Marissa chasing single guys on a daily basis, tonight’s manhunt was all in a day’s work.

Handing her keys to the valet in front of the Normandy Farm Hotel in the Philadelphia suburbs, Marissa stepped out of the cramped hybrid car and stretched her legs at the scene of her evening’s mission. A tension headache that had started this morning after another call from a high-priority client twisted into a throbbing knot behind her eye. Hockey superstar Kyle Murphy was on her top client’s personal Most Wanted list, and Marissa had no choice but to deliver if she was going to keep her customer happy. Ever since her mother had been injured, Marissa no longer worked as a matchmaker just for the love of it. Being her mom’s primary caretaker necessitated an income.

“Enjoy your evening, ma’am.” The college kid in a bow tie and windbreaker grinned at her as she gathered her purse and an evening wrap to ward off the chill of a March evening.

She handled the silk chiffon carefully, the white showstopper a long-ago gift from her mother. Brandy Collins, her pop singer mom, had bought it while on tour in Italy back when she commanded standing-room-only audiences—before the traumatic brain injury that left her frequently confused and fighting to retain basic motor skills. There were experimental medicines available, but without FDA approval, Marissa needed funds to afford the care. She’d give anything to see the light of real recognition in her mom’s eyes again.

“Can you tell me which way to the Philadelphia Phantoms event?” she asked the valet as he slid behind the wheel of her vehicle.

She dug into her purse for a pair of rhinestone earrings and clipped them into place.

“The hockey team is in the main conference atrium.” The valet pointed as he checked for traffic near the unloading area. “There are signs when you walk in.”

“Thanks.” She hurried toward the main entrance between pillars wrapped in white lights, then took one last peek at the newspaper article in her evening bag.

Phantoms’ Playmaker Wins Shootout, the headline announced in a piece that ran in the sports section yesterday. But the text wasn’t as important as the photo of the team’s playmaker himself—power forward Kyle Murphy.

“You look like trouble to me,” she muttered, taking note of the hockey star’s square jaw and high cheekbones. Forest-green eyes glimmered with good humor while a slightly crooked nose prevented him from being Bachelor of the Month gorgeous. Every other trait belonging to Kyle Murphy was handsome as sin and surely as much trouble.

An opinion Marissa had no problem sharing with her client, local celebutante Stacy Goodwell. But Stacy, the daughter of the obscenely wealthy owner of the Phantoms’ arena, hadn’t cared the athlete had a reputation for arrogance. According to Stacy, the player’s hotness factor was off the charts. Her father had been willing to pay well above Marissa’s usual commission to arrange this particular date.

Folding the article back down into the bottom of her bag, Marissa took out one last accessory before she went to work. She slid a plain gold band on her left hand and snapped the purse shut. Some women took off real wedding rings before a night on the town. Marissa suspected she was one of the few who slipped on a fake one. But it helped speed along conversations with single, eligible men when they knew she wasn’t in the market for a date. Besides, any guy who didn’t respect a wedding ring wasn’t the kind of man she’d want for her clients.

“Welcome, miss.” A gray-haired hotel employee in a dark suit opened the door for her.

She gave him a nod as she stepped into the facility and strode toward the conference center, determined to sign on Kyle and hoping that he and Stacy were truly a good match. She’d gotten into this job because she worked well behind the scenes, orchestrating other people’s lives far more effectively than her own. She didn’t want to lose that personal touch now just because financial need had entered the picture. But her mother needed those meds. She deserved a chance to recover her past and her memories. Surely the hockey player could agree to just one date with Stacy. It wasn’t as though she was peddling her services to him for a fee since she already had a paying client in hand. She just needed Kyle to agree to a date.

Eighties rock music played by a DJ filtered through open double doors as she reached the atrium where the event was being held, the insistent guitar distinguishable even though the crowd noise swelled.

Rich red walls warmed the long corridor filled with people taking a break from the dance floor or escaping the music to talk. The party was in full swing, a fundraiser for a local children’s hospital, with the main attraction being the opportunity to meet Phantoms players.

“Excuse me,” Marissa all but shouted as the throng around the doors seemed oblivious.

The sea of bodies moved slightly, giving her room to bypass the social yakkers. A huge chandelier hung over the dance floor in a large hall designed to look more like a barn than a run-of-the-mill meeting space. For that matter, it had been a barn at one time. The high ceiling and rough wood beams of the original space remained.

But where was Kyle Murphy? Scanning the scene, she plotted how to approach a sought-after athlete. To be wealthy, powerful, talented and gorgeous had to be too many blessings for any one person to handle, a condition she’d witnessed in her time navigating her mother’s former world—the insane culture of pop music. While Marissa had never fit into the craziness and excess, she’d cobbled together a network of friends in her travels. Those same friends were her clients today thanks to a couple of great matches she’d made among her nearest and dearest back in the days before she charged for her skills.

“May I get you anything, hon?” a frizzy-haired blonde waitress asked as she tucked an empty serving tray under one arm.

“No, thank you.” Waiting for a drink at the bar would be a better way to scope out the bash.

Marissa headed toward the line at a freestanding bar in the corner of the room. With some more perspective on the party, she could see a few Phantoms players seated at signing tables against a back wall. No doubt that’s where they’d stationed Kyle Murphy.

Could she outlast the line and corner him after he’d dispensed with the fan meet-and-greet? When he didn’t have twenty people around?

Racking her brain for a plan to get him alone without crossing into stalker territory, Marissa was suddenly next up at the bar.

Still with no strategy in sight.

“Can I have a Diet Coke?” she asked the bartender as the women who’d been in front of her finally giggled their way back to the dance floor. The high-octave girly laughter raked along Marissa’s already tense nerves, cranking up the ache behind her left eyeball. “Actually, could you add a Macallan over ice to that order?”

She’d be stuck here for a couple of hours if she wanted to wait out the crowds. A little whiskey might take some of the meanness out of the headache, at least.

“I don’t know,” the bartender shot back with a deep bass, drawing her attention from the mob around the hockey players. “Can I see some ID?”

Frowning, Marissa knew she didn’t look remotely close to the minimum drinking age. If anything, she dressed like someone a couple of decades older than her twenty-seven years in an effort to keep herself out of the fray when it came to discussing dates. Still, she reached for her purse to retrieve her license, her gaze moving toward the guy behind the bar who was dressed incongruously in a crisp white tuxedo shirt and a baseball cap.

Forest-green eyes glittered back at her in the icy fluorescent glow from a lamp on the bar. A crooked nose hovered above full, sculpted lips. Even with a Phantoms cap pulled low over his forehead, the shape of the bartender’s face remained familiar, perhaps because she’d studied it in a newspaper clipping so recently.

The Phantoms’ playmaker stood right in front of her.

She’d wanted a one-on-one with power forward Kyle Murphy. Unfortunately, the sudden appearance of so much potent sex appeal robbed her of speech, thought and good sense.

Silence stretched while her heartbeat thundered.

As professional first impressions went, she couldn’t imagine making a worse one.

NO WORDS WERE NECESSARY when sexual attraction spoke a language all its own.

Kyle Murphy enjoyed the moment as he assessed the reed-thin female on the other side of the bar who’d been struck speechless ever since he’d asked for her ID. The old-fashioned tortoiseshell cat’s-eye frames that perched on her nose were vintage 1960s. In fact, she looked as though she could have stepped off the set of Mad Men with her vintage dress and perfectly applied lipstick. Her dark hair was yanked back in an unforgiving twist rarely worn by young women.

Her style seemed purposely quirky. But if she intended to hide behind the glasses and the severe hairstyle, she’d failed miserably. Dressing twenty years older than she was didn’t disguise her subtle curves. If anything, the clothes accentuated her hips and her narrow waist. Sometimes the more a woman covered up, the more a guy noticed. Especially when the rest of the women in the room were dressed in spaghetti straps and short skirts. Besides, this female had pretty features. High, arched brows topped off eyes so blue they were practically violet. A slightly upturned nose gave her a patrician look. Creamy, pale skin contrasted sharply with inky dark hair.

Sexy. Unusual. And the first woman who hadn’t ordered an appletini or a cosmo in the half hour he’d manned the bar.

She was the kind of woman that appealed to him—the kind who didn’t look as if she was trying too hard. But he reminded himself that he was done with casual hookups. First of all because it was deep into the hockey season and he needed to be focused on his game. He hadn’t been with anyone since last autumn, when he’d convinced one of the nurses on an opponent’s medical staff to come home with him. Turned out she’d only been in the market to see how many pro athlete conquests she could make and she was gone before dawn. So he planned to be more careful with dating when he got back around to it—after he took home the Stanley Cup this spring.

After a long deer-in-the-headlights look, the woman at the bar finally spoke.

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “On second thought, I definitely don’t need the alcohol. Diet Coke will be fine.”

“I was only messing with you about the ID,” he confided, taking his time with the ice cubes so he could keep her there longer. Figure out what it was that drew his attention like a magnet. “Anyone who rakes in enough dough to warrant a plate at this party deserves a drink.”

He wasn’t the kind to flirt, so he didn’t understand why he found himself sliding closer than necessary to speak to her. Her whole bookworm vibe was an intriguing change from the women who threw themselves at him because of his job. But he had no business getting attached to anyone when he was on the road for most of the year and could be traded at any time. He’d been in Philly for less than a month after playing in Boston for most of the season. For all he knew, he could be on the roster in Edmonton this time next year. The Phantoms had wanted the scoring magic he offered in tandem with his foster brother, Axel Rankin. The two of them had been reunited on the ice at the start of the season when Kyle had started the year with Axel’s former team, the Boston Bears. They’d each posted record-breaking stats with the club, but had been picked up by the Phantoms at the trade deadline when the Bears showed no signs of making a play-off run.

“Anyone talented enough to make an NHL roster deserves to enjoy a team soirée rather than work the bar.”

“Shh.” He put a finger over his lips, wanting her to keep a lid on his secret, and cracked open a soda from a nearby cooler. “Not many people have spotted me over here yet.”

“You like downplaying your role?” Her eyebrows knitted, as if she found that hard to believe.

“I prefer to let my stickhandling do my talking.” He cut a fresh lemon and tossed a slice in the glass, still stalling and determined to make the most of this little moment. “I’m not much on the dog-and-pony-show promo events, but this is different since it’s for a group of the Phantoms’ charities. Still, I’d rather offer up manpower behind the bar than sign hats or total strangers’ breasts.”

He couldn’t imagine this woman digging under a T-shirt to offer up her wares at a public autographing event, and that made him all the more interested in earning the privilege to see them privately.

A ghost of a smile played along her lips so quickly he wasn’t sure it had even been there. She leaned over the bar just enough to lower her voice.

“Aren’t you a little young for the thrill of strange breasts to have worn off already?” She eyeballed him above the rim of those librarian glasses, and he felt latent naughty-teacher fantasies spring to life.

“In my experience, the best things in life don’t come easy.” He topped off the soda she’d ordered, unable to stall any longer with a scowling, red-faced guy in a tux in line behind her. “I’d rather invest the time necessary to do the undressing myself.”

She eased back, nodding her approval. “Very commendable. You are a welcome surprise, Mr. Murphy.”

“Kyle,” he corrected her, feeling as though she’d just pasted a gold star to his forehead in front of the whole class. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had called his actions commendable. “Here you go, Ms.—”

He passed her drink to her.

“Marissa Collins. And thank you.” She reached for the glass, her fingers grazing his for one electric moment before she drew back.

He had the urge to ditch the barkeeping duties and pull Marissa Collins into a dark corner.

“Marissa, I finish up here in an hour. Can I interest you in that glass of scotch at around ten?” He hardly ever drank during the season and never on a game night. But he had tomorrow off, and he’d take any excuse to spend a little longer with the unusual beauty who made him think about something besides hockey for the first time in a long time. Not to take her home. Just to talk.

Before she could answer, his gaze fell on her left hand as she reached into an evening bag for a few bills to pay for her soda. A shiny gold band winked at him from her ring finger.

He shouldn’t be surprised. She’d struck him as more aloof than the women he usually met. But he’d assumed she was just self-assured.

“Never mind,” he corrected himself, right about the same time she said, “Sounds great.”

He guessed his expression must be a mirror of her frown. Damn it. Didn’t she see anything wrong in having a drink with him when she was already taken?

Shutting down thoughts of Marissa Collins as fast as possible, he ignored the money she slid across the bar, turning instead to the sweaty and cranky-looking customer who’d been fidgeting impatiently behind her.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked, realizing the guy didn’t recognize him as a player and therefore didn’t appreciate having to wait so long for a drink.

Right now, Kyle was just another working stiff whose flirtation with a pretty girl hadn’t amounted to anything. He shouldn’t feel any different from when he left the hat signings and the female fans who hoped for hookups he’d rarely indulged.

But regret burned now in a way it never had before. With an effort, he kept his eyes off Marissa as she disappeared into the crowd. The last thing he wanted to see was her with some guy who had the right to call her his.

2

NO MATTER THAT MARISSA had always worked hard to take herself out of the equation when it came to arranging dates, she had been sucked in by Kyle Murphy with just one look.

What had happened back there?

Chugging her cola as if it were some magic elixir that could bring her back to sanity, she felt as though she was shaking from the aftershocks of a cataclysmic event. No wait, that was her phone vibrating away in her purse. She ducked into a corner of the room to check her messages, telling herself all the while to forget her strange reaction to the hockey star. She was a healthy, red-blooded female with little to no love life to speak of. Was it any wonder she occasionally got tripped up by the sight of an appealing man?

Although tripped up wasn’t exactly accurate. More like knocked stupid by a two by four to the head.

Cursing herself and hormones that only got in the way of her job, she yanked her phone free from her purse and saw a terse text:

Where R U?

Did no one bother with hello anymore, let alone identifying themselves? She squinted in the dark to read the numbers on the display. A local call.

The buzzing sounded again, along with a new message.

Have U found him?

It had to be Stacy, the client who wanted desperately to meet Kyle. Frustration heated through her while the dance floor erupted with cheers at the opening strains of “Cotton Eyed Joe.”

Plunking out a response on tiny keys, she reminded Stacy that she would be in touch with news next week. In the meantime, another text came through.

Am by autograph tables. I don’t C him!!

Marissa stopped in the middle of typing to peer around the room. And, crap, there was Stacy’s asymmetrical platinum-blond bob, a standout in any crowd. The bright, shiny hair topped off a silver metallic dress and neon-blue vinyl heels.

Stacy was bending low over a table to have a giveaway hat signed by a player Marissa didn’t recognize. Her posture brought to mind Marissa’s conversation with Kyle. His comment about being offered strangers’ breasts. Damn it, why couldn’t Stacy have stayed home and waited for her introduction so Marissa could have coached her on making a positive impression? She hated the little voice in her head reminding her Kyle had flirted with her, so she must have made a good impression. The last thing she needed were personal feelings getting mixed up in a must-do business deal.

Pocketing the phone, Marissa marched toward the client who was determined to give her ulcers.

“Stacy.” She reached the other woman’s side and tugged her away from a hulking Czech player whose face was stitched up like a football. “Will you excuse us?”

“Marissa!” Stacy hugged her, an oversize cocktail ring catching Marissa’s hair while the woman’s silver sequins snagged on the silk shawl Marissa wore. “Have you found him? Does he want to meet me?”

Stacy looked flustered. Embarrassed at having been caught chatting up another player when she was trying to arrange a date with Kyle Murphy? Marissa couldn’t tell. But when Stacy yanked back, she dragged half the evening wrap with her while Marissa tried to pluck the delicate fabric free without tearing it.

“Hang on,” she warned, knowing Stacy’s uncanny ability to wreak havoc wherever she went. Oddly, her tendency toward clumsiness was part of her charm since it softened a personality that seemed—at first glance—a touch abrasive.

Twenty-four-year-old Stacy Goodwell was noisy, effusive, careless and utterly good-hearted. A writer for the Living section of the local paper, she spoke first and thought later, which was half the reason she needed a matchmaker. The other reason was that, while she was both rich and drop-dead gorgeous, she could be naive when it came to men. She tended to fall in love indiscriminately with guys who didn’t have her best interests at heart.

She was a beautiful, lovable mess, and Marissa felt for her because her father was a pompous, overbearing gazillionaire who tried his best to run Stacy’s life. He cared more about seeing her paired off with someone well-connected than someone who loved her. Sweet-natured Stacy hadn’t quite figured out how to tell her father to stay out of her life, but for now she and her father agreed Kyle Murphy would be a great choice.