Читать книгу Everybody's Hero - Tracy Kelleher - Страница 9

BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.

She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.

She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.

Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.

And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.

“Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.

Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.

“Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”

“Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.

“I’m impressed.”

Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.

“It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.

“Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”

“You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”

“Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”

Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.

“Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”

That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials. True, sports had never been her beat, and she was not a celebrity photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But the Claire Marsden photo credit carried a lot of weight in the publishing world. And Trish had assured her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.

So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.

“Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.

“I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.

Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”

Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”

“Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.

Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?

Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.

“You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.

“I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”

“What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon fully appreciates how lucky we are to have you on this job. Now why don’t you and Jason get to work while I talk to Vernon about what we’re planning next.” Trish shooed Claire and Jason along as if they were naughty puppies. There were times when well-manicured French tips definitely made a statement.

Claire turned to Jason. “Well, I guess we’ve got our marching orders. As you’ve already heard, I’m Claire Marsden, but I never got a chance to properly introduce myself.” She held out her hand.

Jason took it. “You’re freezing.” He placed both her bare hands in his and started to rub. His hands were large, his skin rough. Claire didn’t know about her hands, but her toes, which usually were frozen nubs despite two layers of woolen socks, were definitely getting hot. “You should wear gloves,” he said, and rubbed more briskly.

Claire swallowed. “Can’t. It’s an occupational hazard. I can’t wear gloves with the camera. I’m just always cold.”

Jason lifted her hands in his and started to blow. “Better?”

Actually, she was feeling warm, quite warm. “I’m not sure better is the exact word I’d choose.”

Jason peered over their hands. “Am I making you uncomfortable?” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“How about maybe you stop?”

“How about maybe you blow on my hands and I’ll see how I feel?”

Claire was just about to tell Jason what he could do to his hands when he released hers. He held up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding.”

“Something tells me you’re going to be bad news, Jason Doyle.” She shook her head and searched for the technician who was to bring her cameras. He was over by the entrance to the ice rink. Bags of equipment were piled on a bench nearby. She motioned for Jason to follow.

“So how do you want me?” he asked.

Claire made a show of rummaging through her camera bag.

“Does this mean we’re not going to be close friends?”

She looked up. “I think this photo session will be perfectly cordial. We’ll relax, have fun. Afterward, we’ll probably exchange Christmas cards for a year or two. I’ll send you a congratulatory e-mail regarding your next Stanley Cup victory. You might send me pictures when your first child is born. But after that, even the most casual communication will peter out, and five years from now, you’ll think, ‘I wonder what ever happened to that lady photographer, Claire something? I remember she was good at her job, but, boy, was she ever lousy at taking a joke.’”

He listened in silence, and when she’d finished, took a step closer. His hulking frame was mere inches from hers. The worn leather of his jacket sleeve brushed against her sweater as he circled to get in her view. “Is it just me, or are you always this uptight, Claire Marsden?”

She turned, her face now mere inches from his. The color of his eyes had deepened to a midnight hue. Not good. She chickened out. Lowered her gaze. And saw his chest heave in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. Even the molecules of air that barely separated their bodies seemed to twitch and tremble in a sharp staccato.

She fixed what she hoped was an aloof gaze back on him, and, working hard to keep her voice calm, said, “Why don’t you put on your skates and team jersey? We’ll get you on the ice, doing your thing.” The soul of business, she turned back to her camera bag and searched around for rolls of film. She stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, and swung the camera strap over her neck with an ease borne of having repeated the motion at least a million times.

“Where do you want my hands?”

Claire nearly dropped her telephoto lens. So much for instinct.

“What do you want me to do with my hands—on the ice?” Jason had doffed his jacket and pulled on a jersey. He was sitting on the bench, lacing up his skates, something he, too, had done more than a million times.

The act should have been merely mechanical. Why was the sight of his strong fingers working with deft speed so sexy? Until she looked down at her own hands, Claire hadn’t realized that she was unconsciously outlining the protruding camera lens. She quickly let go. The weight made the strap bite into the back of her neck

Claire straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, I think we’ll have you holding a stick and taking a few shots at the net.” She wet her lips. “I understand that’s what you’re good at.”

Jason finished lacing up. “Wait till you see me in action, Claire Marsden.”

“Oh, I think I already have.”

SHE WAS WRONG. In action—in motion—Jason Doyle was beyond great. Barely harnessed power positively radiated from his being. Dynamite was too passive an adjective. It was like being on the surface of the sun with those vortices of energy swirling in every direction.

Which only irritated Claire more because she was convinced she wasn’t capturing it all on film. For a good forty-five minutes, she directed the crew while he swiftly skated up and down. He took slap shot after slap shot, pausing only when the lights needed repositioning—a process that was annoyingly time-consuming to Claire. She was used to capturing the photo as quickly as possible. But the professional and perfectionist in her knew that the technical adjustments were key to getting these color shots right.

“Would you move them to either side of the goal? That’s it, a little higher on the stands. And, Jason, take the shots right on goal, okay?” She moved behind the net.

“Don’t trust me enough to stand in front? I hardly ever miss a stationary target, you know?” He leaned on his stick.

“I’m not concerned for me, but my camera. Any loss of concentration might do it in.”

“Always the ready excuse to keep from getting close.” He lined up a row of pucks.

“Gosh, I don’t know why the thought of having a speeding puck fly within millimeters of my face just doesn’t do it for me.” Claire held up her camera and crouched behind the net.

“Must be a testosterone thing.”

“If the shoe fits.”

“Among other things.”

Claire lowered her camera, but before she even finished uttering, “Hey,” he stepped up to the first puck and with machinelike precision sent each one in the line hurtling toward her face.

She quickly raised her camera and focused. Natural instinct had her flinching the first time the shot came flying toward her, only the loose mesh protecting the bones of her face. It was like being in front of a firing squad. She held firm and let the shutter whir, determined to get her shots of his shots.

Ten minutes later, soaked with as much sweat as he was, Claire wasn’t convinced. She chewed on her lower lip. She wanted the reader to not just see the power, but to actually feel it. She shook her head and rewound, opening the camera and flipping the roll into her bag.

Jason skated up, spraying ice chips as he came to a screeching halt next to her. He was breathing hard. The cold air made his breath cloud. Claire looked up. She quickly popped in a new roll of film. “That’s it! Keep doing that. And get more light in here. Now. Fast. And keep doing that heavy breathing.”

“That’s what all the women say.”

Claire didn’t bother to look up from her viewfinder. “I just bet they do.” She rattled off the shots until the air cleared. “We’ve got to get you moving again.” She snapped her fingers. “But hold on a sec.” She looked for the same lanky techie who had helped her out earlier. “Why don’t you rustle up a pair of skates for me? Size eight.”

Jason stopped making lazy eights with his stick. “You skate?”

“It’s been a while, but I think I’ll be good enough.” Claire looked around the rink. The last time she was on skates was when she was a teenager. She’d been in Holland with Big Jim. They’d just come back from Thailand, and as Big Jim exclaimed—Big Jim never just said anything; he always had to announce it to the world—“It’s colder than a witch’s tit.” In Big Jim’s mind that meant it was prime time for drinking and outdoor sports. The exact order of which tended to get a little fuzzy. “We’re here in Hans Brinker country, Claire-y,” she remembered him proclaiming. “We’ve got to skate on the canals.”

And skate they did, along with scores of Dutch parents and their laughing children. The hours on the frozen ice were followed by hours in a pub, with Big Jim putting away endless bottles of beer and regaling the clientele with a bottomless well of tales.

“You sure you’re up to it?” Jason’s voice penetrated her memories.

Claire looked over. “No problem. Look, here comes Elaine.” She nodded toward Trish’s assistant and slid across the rink. At the bench, she quickly laced up. Her feet felt uncomfortable as she wiggled her ankles. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Claire’s first steps on the ice were tentative. Then she relaxed her knees and quickly built up a rhythm of pushing off and gliding, an easy rocking from one skate to the other. She circled in a wide arc near the entrance to the rink, picked up speed and skated back to the center of the ice where Jason stood in the face-off circle.

Jason watched her as she approached. “Not bad.”

“I’m no Sonja Henje, let alone Wayne Gretzky, but it’ll do.” She picked up her camera in both hands. “Listen, ditch the jersey.”

Jason held the uniform top by the V-neck. “This?”

“That’s right.” Claire made a throwing motion with her hand.

“You’re the boss.” Jason slipped it over his head, leaving only the tight black T-shirt—and very little else—to the imagination.

An “ohmygod!” was audible from where Trish was standing by the boards. Then a clump. Claire looked over and saw her bending to retrieve her cell phone.

“Just think what could happen if I went further?” Jason dipped a hand under the bottom edge of his T-shirt and started to lift.

Claire caught a glimpse of his granite-smooth stomach muscles. She swallowed with difficulty. “No, I think you’ve gone far enough. I wouldn’t want Trish to end up face forward.”

“I’m fully qualified at CPR. Trish would be in good hands.”

And she was sure that Trish would be only too willing to take a dive to test out his claim. Which, come to think of it, was just what she had in mind originally. So why did she find herself wanting to see Jason practice his life-resuscitating skills on her, instead of her best friend? Down, girl, down, she admonished.

“Hold that thought. You can play doctor later,” she said. “Guys—” she motioned to the crew “—spread the lights up and down the rink, away from the boards. And, Jason, I want you to skate straight down the ice, not too fast. I’ll skate along with you. I want you to be handling the puck. Look ahead, like you’re planning a shot on goal.”

He took off slowly. “Like this?”

“You can go a little faster. Good. That’s it. Keep looking ahead. You can talk if you want.”

He handled the puck deftly. “So how come you didn’t ask me to take off my shirt, but you gave Clyde Allthorpe the go-ahead?”

“I didn’t have to ask.”

Jason stopped abruptly, the edges of his blades leaving a layer of white powder. “He was already au naturel?”

Claire kept her eye in the viewfinder. “Don’t stop. Keep going. And no, he was not au naturel, as you put it. He was swimming with his fiancée, Donna. And he was wearing swimming trunks—little tiny ones. Bright blue. Very cute.”

“I can imagine.” Jason didn’t sound all that pleased.

“No, don’t look at me. Straight ahead. That’s it. Great. Anyway, like I said, they were just getting out of the pool when I took the photo. They’d been swimming together, very happy. Over the top, actually. Their wedding was the next day. In fact, I was there to shoot their wedding.”

“You were on assignment?”

“Not exactly. I’d met Clyde when he was on an aid mission to Ethiopia. We hit it off, and he asked me if I’d shoot his wedding. It was all very hush-hush, no announcements. When the press got a whiff of it, Clyde and Donna decided the best thing would be to make arrangements to release photos to just one magazine. I talked it over with them, contacted Trish, and of course she jumped at the idea.” She stopped to reload, and Jason pulled up next to her.

“I bet she did.” Jason looked over at Trish, who was chatting up Vernon but still managed to keep a cell phone plastered to one ear. Her blond hair sparkled in the glare of the lights, giving her sophisticated beauty an ethereal glow. It was Tinker Bell with sex appeal.

“So what’s this about Trish needing a husband? I would think she’d be able to pick and choose. Wait a minute—she doesn’t need a husband because she is in the family way, so to speak? I’m not risking a paternity suit.”

“No, she is not in the family way, so to speak, and don’t look so panic-stricken. Besides, I didn’t say she needed a husband. I said she needed a fiancé.” Claire pursed her lips. “Listen, let’s skate down the middle of the ice toward the net at the other end. I want to get a shot of you head-on.” She started to skate backward, looking through the camera. “That’s it. Skate toward me. No, don’t look at me. Look over my shoulder, like you’re scoping out the defense. That’s it. That’s great.”

Jason timed his longer strides to her shorter ones. “So why does she need a fiancé?”

“She doesn’t need a fiancé exactly, more like a pretend fiancé. You see it’s like this—we have to go to this wedding of a former boyfriend of hers, and she doesn’t want him to know she’s unattached. It’s a pride thing.” She kept clicking the shutter. “That’s it. Breathe a little harder through your mouth.”

“Ah, the heavy-breathing thing again.” He puffed out dramatically. “And this ex-boyfriend is supposed to believe that Trish and I are passionately in love?”

“We’ll say you two met on this story and suddenly felt this overwhelming attraction. I mean, look at the two of you. Beauty and brawn.”

“I presume I’m the beauty.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Glamorous careers. Jet-setting lifestyles. It’s perfect.”

“So do you need a fiancé, too?”

Claire kept her head behind the camera. “Nope. No problems with prior attachments.”

“Any plans for the future?”

“No, I’m a free agent, and I’m happy just the way I am.”

“But you’ll be there? At the wedding, I mean?”

“Of course. Who do you think the wedding photographer is?”

“I should have known. Have camera will travel. You know, I gotta warn you.” He sped up his skating.

“Not too close. I can’t focus that close with this lens.” It wasn’t just the lens that was having trouble, as his body space impinged on hers.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Tell me what?” Her back bumped into the crossbar of the net with a jolt. She would have dropped her camera if the strap hadn’t been around her neck.

“I tried to tell you.” Jason put his hand on her back and massaged the point where she had banged into the bar.

Claire tried not to think about the further pain he was causing.

“I’m beginning to think you need me more than you realize.” He slowly rubbed her shoulder blades.

Claire’s head shot up. “Just because I banged into the net doesn’t mean I need you. And you can stop rubbing now. I didn’t do that much damage.”

“Ah, you don’t know how much damage you’ve already done. In any case, there’s something else I need to tell you.”

“Something else?” She felt a strange letdown when Jason removed his hand.

“Yes, not only do you ride a motorcycle, you also skate backward. As it turns out, these are two of my requirements for a wife. And I must say, you pass with flying colors.”

“You’re joking, right?”

Jason grinned over his shoulder and started to glide away. “Oh, by the way. My keys?”

Claire swore under her breath. She fished into her jeans’ pocket and tossed them underhand. He caught them with an easy swipe and skated away, only to stop and return in a long slow arc.

“Yes?” She scowled as he slid in close. Again, too close.

He lifted one hand.

She watched his hand come close to her face. Then closer. “You want to tell me what’s going on here?”

With a gentle swipe of his index finger, Jason brushed the corner of her mouth. She flinched. Felt her lips tingle and her tongue turn dry. Gulping was impossible. Inhaling only slightly more doable. He had to know how awkward she was feeling.

Jason smiled broadly. He knew. “Powdered sugar.”

Claire’s eyes widened. “Powdered sugar?”

Jason brought his index finger to his mouth and slowly tasted it. “Yup, definitely powdered sugar. Must have been that donut you were eating when I first rolled up.” He looked down, one eyebrow slightly cocked.

The photographer in Claire leapt to take the pose.

The woman in her was paralyzed.

“And by the way, Claire Marsden,” Jason said lazily over his shoulder as he skated off for a second time. “That was no joke.”

Claire slowly brought her hand to her face and touched the corner of her open mouth. Her skin was hot, incredibly hot. She couldn’t possibly be blushing. She never blushed. But then she’d never been touched by a demon on skates, either.