Tilt your chin down just a little, Faith, and look right here.” Faith dipped her chin and raised her gaze to the photographer’s hand a few inches above his head. “Keep your eyes on me, Ty,” he added.
Inside the players’ lounge, Faith stood in the center of the big Chinooks logo and slightly behind the captain of her hockey team. Almost a week had past since she and Ty had sat in the PR meeting. Four days since the Chinooks had beaten Vancouver in game six and advanced to the next round in the playoffs.
It was after 7
P.M., long after the rest of the team had gone home for the day. The lounge had been stripped of furnishings and filled with camera equipment. Faith’s mother made herself useful by holding up a white light reflector. For once, Faith had been able to persuade her mother to leave her dog at home. Although she did fear that Pebbles might retaliate by chewing up the furniture.
“A little more to the right, Faith.”
For the shoot, she wore a tight black pencil skirt, black silk Georgette blouse with a black camisole, and a pair of red crocodile pumps. It had been a while since she’d stepped out of the shadows and into the spotlight. She felt a bit out of practice. It had been a while since she’d had her hair and makeup professionally done, and she felt a bit overdone. Everything from the arch of her brow to her red lips was perfect. In fact, everything in the room was perfect, from the lighting to the photographer. Everything except the 240 pounds of unhappy man standing directly in front of her. Heat and displeasure rolled off Ty in waves. His arms were folded across his chest; a posture she’d seen him take in the past when he was less than pleased about something. Today that something was getting his picture taken with her.
He wore a plain T-shirt that matched the darker blue of his eyes and a pair of worn Levi’s. He hadn’t allowed them to put makeup on his face or even a little gel in his hair. He was being a complete pain in the ass, but by contrast, he smelled wonderful, like soap and skin, and Faith had an odd little urge to lean forward a bit and smell his shirt or the side of his neck.
The photographer snapped the picture. “Put your hand on his shoulder,” he said and adjusted the lens. “Valerie, tilt that up a little. That’s it.”
Other than the occasional handshake, Faith hadn’t touched another man since she’d agreed to marry Virgil. She lightly rested her hand on Ty’s shoulder. The warmth of his hard muscles heated her palm through the soft blue cotton, and for the first time in a very long time, she became acutely aware that she was a woman standing very close to a man. A young, healthy man. Not that she hadn’t noticed before. It was impossible not to notice a man like Ty, but she’d never thought of him as anything more than the surly captain of the Chinooks.
“Slide your fingers forward. I want to see your red nails against the blue of his shirt.” She slid her hand over his shoulder and spread her fingers a bit. “Yeah. Like that.”
She dropped her hand but could still feel the heat of him in the center of her palm. She hadn’t felt anything the least bit sexual for a man in a long time. She paid Ty’s salary. He didn’t even like her. So why did her stomach suddenly feel light, like she’d swallowed too much air?
“You doing okay, Ty?” Tim asked.
“Are we about done?”
“We just got started.”
“Shit.”
The photographer lowered his camera. “Faith, if you could just come out in front a bit.”
Faith happily moved so that Ty stood just behind her left shoulder. She took a deep breath and cleared her head of all the hot pheromones he’d been throwing off like a tantalizing mirage.
“Spread your feet a little and put your hands on your hips.” He raised the camera. “And Ty, just keep looking belligerent.”
“I’m not belligerent.”
“Yeah. Perfect.”
Faith laughed and glanced over her shoulder and up into his face and the furrow between his dark brows. “If you’re not being belligerent, then I’d hate to see you when you’re downright hostile.”
He lowered his blue-on-blue gaze to hers. “I’m never hostile.”
She thought of the last game against Vancouver and chuckled. He’d body-slammed a Canuck into the boards and jabbed him with his elbow. “You’re just a sweetheart.”
One corner of his mouth turned up and the feeling in her stomach got a little lighter. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Mrs. Duffy.”
“Faith. You can call me Faith.”
His smile fell and he returned his gaze to the photographer. “That’s not a good idea.”
“Perfect.”
“Faith, I have a change of clothes for you in the trainers’ room,” Bo Nelson said. “We want you in your home uniform, Ty.”
As Faith watched Ty leave the room, she wondered why he thought calling her by her given name was a bad idea. She and her mother followed the assistant PR director across the lounge and shut the door behind them. He probably just wanted to stay on professional terms. Which was always best, but she was fairly certain he hadn’t called Virgil “Mr. Duffy” all the time.
A rack of clothes took up the middle of the room. She looked them over and wondered why using her name wasn’t the same as calling Virgil by his given name. Had she crossed some line she didn’t know about?
“How do you feel?” Bo asked as she straightened the shoes. “Like your face might crack from smiling?”
Faith pulled out a black sheath, then put it back. “Being in front of the camera felt a little awkward at first, but I’m getting the hang of it again.”
Her mother pulled a hot-pink Betsey Johnson baby doll dress off the rack. “Try this one.”
Faith shook her head. “I don’t think that’s appropriate for the owner of a hockey team.”
“We thought this.” Bo pulled a vibrant red dress with a scoop neckline and full silk skirt. It was sleeveless, and except for the silver metallic leather belt, it looked like something from the fifties.
“It’s very bright.”
“The colors will look great on you.”
She hadn’t worn that color red since she’d married Virgil. “Who picked these out?” she asked the woman, whose auburn hair was pulled back in a stumpy ponytail.
“Jules worked with a stylist, and they chose that one because it will accent the red in Ty’s home uniform.”
“I’d wondered if he was gay,” Valerie said.
“Me too,” Bo added as she looked through the rack. “He’s very pretty.”
Faith kicked off her pumps as she unbuttoned her blouse. “Being pretty or not is no indication that a man is gay.” One of the gay bouncers at Aphrodite had looked like a rode-hard biker.
“Not always.” Bo took the black blouse from Faith. “Ty Savage is a pretty boy, but you’d never even think to question what he prefers.”
“Or his father.”
Faith looked from her pants zipper to her mother. “You know his father?”
“I met him the other night after the game.”
“You never mentioned it.”
Valerie shrugged. “I wasn’t impressed.”
