Any Man Of Mine

farther into the room. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”

“That’s like saying my face looks like a dog’s butt, then tel ing me to forget you said it.”

“Your face doesn’t look like a dog’s butt. You have a real y pretty face and a smoking body—and I mean that in a total y nonlesbian way.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Which is why I thought you put on the repel ent. To purposely scare men away. We al do it sometimes.”

She scared men away? Seriously? When had that happened? She’d thought she wasn’t dating by choice. Not because men found her repel ent, but come to think of it, she hadn’t been asked out in a real y long time.

“I’m soooooo sorry, Autumn. Are you mad?”

“No.” She wasn’t mad. Just a little shocked and a whole lot confused. She couldn’t even recal the last time a man had even flirted with her. Shiloh gave a weak smile, then asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject and fil the awkward silence, “So, what’s your brother doing tonight?”

She reached for an empty binder and pul ed the rings apart. “Out somewhere.” She’d have to ask Vince if she had a bad vibe. He’d tel her the truth, maybe. “Why?”

“I thought I might cal him.”

“You know he’s a dog?” She reached inside a desk drawer and pul ed out a planning packet. She looked up, and added, “Right?”

“Sure.” Shiloh shrugged. “I don’t want to marry him. Just maybe have dinner.”

Uh-huh. Vince didn’t do dinner. “Shi—” She should warn her assistant. She liked Shiloh, and Vince wasn’t relationship material. He had issues.

“Yeah?”

Shiloh was a nice woman, and Autumn didn’t want to lose her as an assistant, even if she did think she sprayed man repel ent on herself, but who was she to give anyone advice? “Nothing. Have a good night.”

“See ya Monday,” Shiloh said over her shoulder as she walked away.

“Lock the door on the way out.” She placed a business card in the binder sleeve, a packet inside, and snapped the rings shut. She hadn’t had a date in a real y long time. She’d thought it was because she was just too busy. That she wasn’t ready. That it was her choice. Was there more to it? Did she real y give off some sort of vibe?

No. Yes. Maybe. She reached inside another desk drawer and pul ed out a remote. God, I don’t know. She turned on the television across the room and clicked around until she found the Chinooks’ game. She watched for a few moments, hoping to see Conner’s face in the crowd. She was a single mother. A smal -business owner. A very busy woman. Way too busy for a relationship just then, but that didn’t mean she wanted to repel men.

“The puck is shot up ice by LeClaire, who tries to pass to Holstrom, ” the hockey commentator announced just before the whistle blew. “Five and a quarter left in the second period, and icing is called. ” The camera zoomed in on Sam’s jersey. On the Chinook swatting a puck with its tail, then the lens panned up to his face beneath the white helmet resting above his brows. His blue gaze looked up at the scoreboard. The Dal as Stars were up by a goal.

“That man right there is a huge part of the Chinooks’ cup-winning defense,” the commentator continued. “He’s always one of the biggest, most intimidating guys on the ice. ”

A second commentator laughed. “If you see LeClaire coming, it’s best to get out of the way. With his team down by one, he’ll be looking to put the big hurt on someone.”

Sam skated into a face-off circle to the left of his own goal. He put his stick on the ice and waited, his steely blues focused on the opponent across from him. The puck dropped, and he fought for domination, battling it out. He shot the puck up ice, but it was stopped by a Dal as player who had the audacity to skate along the boards toward the Chinooks’ goal. The “big hurt” Sam put on him lifted his skates a foot off the ice and rattled the Plexiglas. A Star slammed into Sam, who turned and threw a punch. Several players from both teams piled on, and Autumn couldn’t tel if they were hitting each other or holding each other back. Gloves and sticks hit the ice, and two referees final y blew their whistles and skated into the middle of the scrum. Sam pointed to the left and argued with the ref, but in the end, he straightened his white jersey, picked up his gloves and stick from the ice, and skated to the penalty box. His eyes narrowed, but a smile twisted one corner of his lips. He wasn’t at al sorry.

Of course, Sam was rarely sorry about anything.

She remembered the first time she’d looked up into those blue eyes. She’d been so incredibly naive, and he’d been so impossibly handsome. She’d been alone in Vegas. Al alone in Sin City. She’d been a smal -town girl, and Vegas had been foreign and like nothing she had ever experienced. Maybe if she hadn’t been alone, she wouldn’t have been so vulnerable to Sam’s evil ways.

Maybe if she hadn’t paid nonrefundable money for the seven-day, five-night vacation package to Caesars Palace, she would have taken one look at the debauchery in those beautiful eyes and run home. Maybe if her mother hadn’t warned her about the decadence in Vegas, she wouldn’t have been so intrigued to see it for herself.

She’d spent the previous two years caring for her mom and taking care of her affairs after her death and she’d needed a break. A vacation from her life. She had a list of everything she wanted to do in Vegas, and she was determined to wring every last dime out of that vacation. That first day by herself she’d spent walking up and down the Strip, staring at al the people and col ecting stripper/hooker cards. She’d windowshopped at Fendi, Versace, and Louis Vuitton. She’d found a pink bead bracelet at a sidewalk vendor and played a few slots in Harrah’s because she’d read somewhere that Toby Keith stayed at Harrah’s. But she’d only fed the slots until she lost twenty bucks. Even then, she’d been very tight with her money.

She’d lounged by the pool, and that night she put on a white sundress she’d bought at a Wal-Mart in Helena and hit Pure. She’d heard about the nightclub inside Caesars. Read in People and Star magazines that celebrities hosted parties in the bar. At first, things inside Pure were slow. She sat within the stark white interior and rol ing pastel lights, nursing a few drinks and wondering, “Is this it?” Is this what everyone raves about? But by eleven, the bar picked up, and by midnight she was dancing and having a good time. By 1:00 A.M., the dance floor was a crowded mash of warm bodies, and she was in the middle of it, moving her butt to Jack Johnson, letting go, being young, and having more fun than she’d had in years.

Within the mix of hot bodies and warm tequila glow, she’d become instantly aware of a pair of big hands on her waist. For a second or two she hadn’t thought much of it. The floor was crowded, and people were bumping into each other. She took the touch for an accident, but when it became obvious to her booze-soaked brain that the touch wasn’t accidental, she threw an elbow into a solid wal of muscle and looked over her shoulder. Way up into baby blue eyes and a face that dropped her jaw. Yel ow light slid through his hair and lit him up like a golden god. He didn’t smile or say anything. Not even “hel o.” He just looked at her, his hands lightly resting in the curve of her waist, not a bit sorry that he was touching her. Blue and green lights flashed across his face as sex rol ed off him in hot waves. His gaze held hers, and she knew trouble when it stared down at her. She knew it by the tumble in her stomach and the catch in her breath. She knew she should run. But she didn’t. Instead, she stood there, feeling the pulsing beat of the music through her feet up to her heart. She stood there, staring into those mesmerizing blue eyes like she’d fal en into some bizarre, dizzying trance. Either that, or she’d downed more tequila than she thought. He lowered his face and asked next to her ear, “Are you afraid?” His deep, rough voice touched the side of her throat and raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.

Was she?

No, but she definitely should be. Maybe it was the alcohol or Vegas or him. Probably al three. She shook her head and he pul ed back and looked into her face as an easy, confident smile pushed up the corners of his lips.

“Good.” He raised one of her hands to his shoulder and once again rested both palms in the curve of her waist. “That’s real good.”

For such a big guy, he could move. He was fluid and at perfect ease with his body. He pul ed her closer until the front of her sundress almost touched his blue T-shirt. Almost. She could feel the heat of his chest and smel the scent of soap and skin and beer. He moved his hips with hers, his knee finding a spot between her thighs. Her hands slid across his hard shoulders to the base of his wide neck. This wasn’t happening. This sort of thing didn’t happen to her. Not the pounding in her heart or the hot pulse down low in her bel y. It wasn’t real. He wasn’t real.