Her throat got tight. "I don't think we should do this," she managed.

"No. Probably not." He kissed the hollow of her throat, worked his way to her chin, and said just above her lips, "But what the f.u.c.k." Before she could protest, his mouth covered hers and robbed her of breath. His warm palm cupped her face, his thumb brushed her cheek. s.e.xual awareness shimmered like a heat wave across her chest and down her belly. The sudden and unexpected desire heating up her body stunned her.

This wasn't wise. It wasn't a good idea. In the past, she'd easily managed to rebuff employer s.e.xual advances. She should stop him. Instead of doing the wise thing, she slid her hand from his shoulder to the side of his neck, and a groan vibrated deep in his chest. "Kiss me, Chelsea. Open your beautiful mouth for me."

And she did, responding to the rough texture of his voice and the pleasure of his touch. Her lips parted, and he kissed her. Soft, slow, with his wet mouth and tongue, teasing a response out of her. Turning her into the aggressor as any last thought of resistance melted away beneath his hot desire. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, slick and welcome. He tasted good to her, like need and l.u.s.t and s.e.x. She slid her fingers into his hair and held the sides of his head in her hands. Her body arched toward him, wanting more of his solid warmth as he fed her wet kisses. A deep, sensuous moan escaped her mouth and touched his lips.

He pulled back and looked into her face, his breathing heavy. Within the shadows of the room, he blinked and his brows lowered. "Chelsea."

She liked how he said her name. All smoky with l.u.s.t. She moved her hands to the back of his head and slowly brought his mouth down to hers once more. She gave him slow, hungry kisses that tightened her chest and knotted her stomach.

His palm slid down her side and she held her breath, waiting for him to grab her breast. When he didn't, she relaxed and slipped her hand from the back of his head, down the side of his neck and shoulder. She touched the hard planes of his chest, and her fingers grasped the front of his shirt. The knot in her stomach moved lower as Mark slid his hand over her hip and down her leg. He found bare skin, and he slipped his hand beneath the edge of her dress and palmed her thigh.

Somewhere in the distance a bell rang. Chelsea didn't know if it was real or imagined. She didn't care. All she cared about was Mark's mouth on hers and his hand caressing upward. She turned toward him, and he grasped her behind in one of his big, warm hands. His thumb brushed across her lace panties and slipped beneath the elastic edge.

The bell rang once more, and Mark lifted his head and looked down into her face. His gaze moved across her face, down her arm and side, to his hand cupping her b.u.t.t cheek.

"s.h.i.t." He removed his hand and rolled onto his back.

Desire still pounding through her veins, Chelsea wondered if he'd meant "s.h.i.t" because he'd had to stop. Or "s.h.i.t" because he shouldn't have started.

He raised one arm and covered his eyes. "Please let this be another nightmare."

She guessed that answered her question. She swung her legs over the side of the chaise and stood. The fact that he considered kissing her a nightmare hurt more than it should have, given the nature of their relationship. It wasn't like they were boyfriend and girlfriend. She worked for him. It was a nightmare. Still, he didn't have to be so rude. Especially not after the kiss had been so good.

"How in the h.e.l.l did that just happen?" He lowered his arm and looked at her. "You're not even supposed to be in here."

It sounded suspiciously like he was trying to blame her, and she was the innocent party. Well, maybe not innocent. "I had something important to talk to you about and you wouldn't answer your cell phone."

He sat up and reached for his cane resting on the floor. "Another rabid squirrel sighting?" He stood and turned to face her from the other side of the chaise. The front of his shirt was still rumpled from her grasp. "Grapes that you just couldn't wait to tell me about?"

"You make it sound as if I planned what happened." She placed a hand on her chest. "I'm the innocent party here."

"If you're so innocent, how did I end up with my hand on your a.s.s and your tongue in my mouth?"

She gasped. "This wasn't my fault! You grabbed me and pulled me down next to you." She pointed at him. "And then you you kissed kissed me me ." ."

A frown pulled at the corners of his mouth. "You didn't seem to mind."

ELEVEN.

Mark looked across the chaise at his a.s.sistant. Her hair was messy and her lips a bit swollen. His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane to keep from grabbing her again. To keep from pushing her down and sliding his hand up her smooth thigh to her tight little b.u.t.t.

"Well, at first I was in shock. Then I was just waiting for you to relax so I could get away." She shrugged her shoulder like the little actress she was. "I was just about to knee you in the nut sac and run."

He laughed. No wonder she was out of work. She just wasn't that convincing. Not when he could still hear her long, needy moan in his head.

The doorbell rang once more. "I'm not expecting anyone," he said. "Did you set anything up without telling me?"

"Of course not. Maybe it's the Realtor. She's really excited about a house in Bellevue."

He held his hands wide and didn't need to look down to know there was an obvious bulge in the front of his jeans. "You're going to have to get that."

Her gaze slid down his chest to the zipper closing the front of his Lucky's. For several long seconds she stared at his erection as red crept up her cheeks. "Oh." She spun on the heels of her sandals and practically ran from the room.

Mark watched her go, then leaned over to grab the remote from the end table. He turned off the television and tossed the remote on the chaise. He'd been dreaming of her. Again. He'd been dreaming of her and then she'd become a living, breathing part of that dream. When he'd first awakened and looked up at her, he'd been confused. In his dream she'd been naked, and they'd been having mad, crazy s.e.x. Then he'd opened his eyes and she was wearing that horrible Pucci dress.

He moved to the French doors and looked out into his backyard and the golf course beyond. Pulling her down beside him and kissing her neck was all a dreamy haze, reality mixed with fantasy. But the sound of her hungry moan had cleared the confusion, and he'd lifted his head to look at her. He'd had a fleeting thought that he should stop, but then she'd pulled his head down to hers and kissed him with her wet mouth and smooth tongue. Any thought of stopping instantly vanished, replaced by darker, hotter thoughts. Thoughts of doing all the naughty little things he'd been doing to her naughty little body for the past week in his dreams. He didn't know if that made him lonely or obsessed or sick. Maybe it made him all three.

"There's someone here to see you."

Mark turned back to the room, ready to tell her to get rid of whoever had shown up on his porch. He opened his mouth, but the words never pa.s.sed his lips. His gaze landed on a skinny kid with short red hair stuck to his head, bright copper freckles on his face, and gold-rimmed gla.s.ses. Mark's memory after the accident might be spotty, but he remembered the boy in the doorway. It was hard to forget a kid who completely lacked basic hockey fundamentals. The kid skated like a windmill, chopped at the puck, and whacked the other kids in the shins. "h.e.l.lo, Derek. How's it going?"

"Good, Coach Bressler."

What was the kid doing here, and how had he found Mark? "What can I do for you?"

"I got your e-mail. So I'm here."

Mark raised his gaze to Chelsea, who stood by the boy's side. Her face was carefully blank. He knew that look. She was guilty as h.e.l.l. "I'm kind of forgetful because of the accident," he told the boy. "So you'll have to remind me what I wrote in the e-mail."

Derek held up a pair of inline skates, tied together. "That I should come show you my hockey stops."

Chelsea's jaw dropped and she shook her head. "You did not write that."

He tilted his head to one side and folded his arms across his T-shirt. "What else didn't I write?"

Chelsea's eyes narrowed as she stared down at the kid by her side. "You didn't write that he should come here and practice, that's for sure."

Derek looked up at Chelsea, and behind the lenses of his gla.s.ses, his eyes narrowed too. "How do you know?"

"Well, I...I...I spell-check all Mr. Bressler's e-mails before he sends them out. Because of his memory problem, and all that."

It was a bad lie, but the kid bought it. He nodded and turned his attention to Mark. "I could help, maybe. My mom helps me with flash cards."

The last thing Mark needed was for the kid to show up tomorrow with flash cards. "Thanks for the offer, but I'm much better now. How did you get my address?"

Derek pushed up his gla.s.ses with his free hand. "The Internet."

The kid's answer was alarming. If an eight-year-old boy could find him, who else could?

"I'm sure you've broken some sort of law. First by somehow hacking Mr. Bressler's e-mail and now by finding his house."

"I didn't break any law! His e-mail is on the paper we got last year. And I just put his name in Whosit and got the address."

What was Whosit?

Chelsea shook one finger at Derek. "Even if you didn't break any laws, which I'm not so sure about, it's rude to just show up at people's houses. Does your mother know where you are?"

Derek shrugged one skinny shoulder. "My older sister is at the mall and my mom's at work. She won't get off until six."

"Where do you live?" Mark asked.

"Redmond."

"How did you get here?"

"Bike."

No wonder the kid's hair was stuck to his head. "Do you want some water or a soda?" He couldn't have the kid die of dehydration before he sent him back home.

Derek nodded. "Do you have Gatorade? Like we drank in hockey camp?"

"Probably." He tightened his grip on the cane and headed toward the door. "And you need to call your mom and tell her that you're here."

"Do I have to, Coach? Can't I just leave before she gets home?"

"No." Mark moved to the threshold and motioned for Derek to precede him. The boy moved out of the way, and Mark gazed down into Chelsea's face. "You and I will talk later."

She stuck her chin up in the air. "I never told him to come over and practice."

He looked into the variegated blue in her eyes. "Not about that."

"About what?"

He lowered his attention to her mouth. "About what happened before Derek rang the doorbell."

"Oh, that."

"Yeah, that." Although he really didn't know what there was to say about that. Other than he was sorry and it wouldn't happen again.

He tore his gaze from his a.s.sistant's mouth and followed the kid down the hall. Derek's socks slid down his skinny shins as he walked. "Are you in hockey camp this year?"

Derek shook his head. "My mom said we don't got the money this year."

Mark knew that a lot of kids got their hockey camp fee paid for through one of the Chinooks' various organizations. He was fairly sure Derek had been one of those kids last year. "Didn't you get a scholarship?"

"Not this year."

"Why?"

"Don't know."

Mark walked beside Derek into the kitchen. The light bounced off the kid's red hair, gla.s.ses, and the white, white skin between all those freckles.

"What name did we pick out for you last year?" he asked as he moved to the refrigerator and opened it.

Derek set his skates on the floor beside his feet. "The Hackster."

"That's right." At camp, each kid got a hockey name. Derek was the Hackster for the way he hacked at the puck. Mark pulled out a bottle of green Gatorade and opened it with the palm of his right hand.

"Does it hurt?"

Mark looked up. "What?"

"Your hand."

He tossed the cap on the granite island and flexed his fingers. The middle one stayed perfectly stiff. "It kind of aches sometimes. Not as much as it used to." He handed Derek the bottle.

"Does your middle finger bend?"

Mark held up his hand and showed the kid. "Nope. It stays like this no matter what."

"That's cool."

He laughed. "You think so?"

"Yep. You can flip people off and not get in trouble." Derek took a long drink until he ran out of breath and lowered the bottle. "The school can't call your mom," he said between gasps, "'cause it's not your fault."

True. In his case, the school would have called his grandmother, who would have told his father, who would have skinned his behind.

"Are you going to play hockey again?"

Mark shook his head and looked down at the cap on the granite island. His agent had called him earlier that afternoon about possibly commentating for ESPN. "Afraid not." While he wasn't ruling it out, he'd wait for a solid offer. He wasn't all that excited about sitting in a studio and talking about the game rather than being on the ice where the action took place. But as his agent had pointed out, job offers for Mark Bressler were drying up as fast as endors.e.m.e.nt deals.

"My mom took me to a playoffs game against Detroit. We won three to one." Derek took another drink, then pushed his gla.s.ses up. "Ty Savage put a hit on McCarty in retaliation for the hit McCarty put on Savage in game four. It was a good game, but it would have been better if you'd been there." Derek looked up. His eyes glazed with hero worship. "You're the best player ever. Better than Savage."

Mark wouldn't go so far as to say he was better than Ty Savage. Well, maybe a little.

"Even better than Gretzky."

Mark wasn't so sure he was better than Gretzky, but one thing he was absolutely sure of: He'd never been comfortable in the hero role. He'd played hockey. He'd never saved a life or put his own life on the line. He'd never been a d.a.m.n hero, but it seemed important to Derek. "Thanks, Hackster."

Derek set his bottle on the island. "Do you want to see my stops?"

Not really, but when the kid looked at him like that, he couldn't say no. "Sure." He pointed to Derek's skates. "You can show me on the front drive." It was long enough that the kid wouldn't run into anything, except Chelsea's car. But really, what was one more dent?

Derek grabbed his skates, and the two of them headed toward the front of the house. As they moved past the office, Chelsea stuck her head out of the door.

"Can I talk to you, Mr. Bressler?"

He put his hand on Derek's shoulder. "Go ahead and put your skates on outside. I'll be out in a minute."