So Over You (Chicago Rebels #2)(31)

Her last professional hockey game.

Each of the sisters had received a letter from their father at the reading of the will—a last note from beyond the grave. She didn’t know the contents of her sisters’ notes, but she had her own letter memorized by heart.

Dear Isobel,

From the moment I saw you in your mother’s arms, I knew you would be the one to carry on my legacy. You’ve made me so happy already, and while your injury might have set you back, I know this isn’t the end. Sharing the team with your sisters might not seem like a way back to glory, but your competitive spirit will lift the Rebels up—and you with it. Don’t give up, my winningest girl.

Love, Dad

Sure, Cliff. No pressure.

On the subject of pressure, the hot water felt so good. Chase Manor’s five bathrooms had decent showers, but nothing beat the pulsing power massaging her skin and bones and marrow right this minute. Determined to stay until she pruned or the water ran cold, she jumped when the lights went out.

Had someone thrown the master switch? Lenny knew she was here, so that seemed unlikely.

In pitch darkness, she blinked and tried to adjust to the midnight blackness. Crap, this was all she needed. She stepped out, fumbling for the towel on the hook, and immediately knew:

She wasn’t alone.

Her heart thumped rabbit kicks. A shuffling sound answered it, sending her ninja reflexes into hyperdrive. With no hesitation, she shoved the heel of her hand forward and up, screamed something that should have sounded like “Fuck you!” but instead came out as “Fooooo!” and was immensely gratified to register a connection with the asshole who was trying to creep up on her in the dark.



Vadim doubled over like a sack of beets, clutching his throat. Vainly, he tried to speak before she kicked the living shit out of him and finished the job. His eyes watered. His throat throbbed. If that’s what she could do with a single heel chop, he shuddered to think how close he had come to having his genetic line end tonight.

“Iso—Iso . . .” The word would not form.

“Vadim? Oh my God, Vadim!” She fell to her knees beside him, her hand searching and curving around the back of his neck. “I had no idea that was you. I just sensed danger and self-preservation kicked in.”

He held up the hand of forgiveness, not that she could see it in the dark. What had he been thinking? That he had heard the pitter-patter of water and wanted to give whoever was here a heads-up so they wouldn’t react like Isobel had just reacted. Then the lights went out and . . .

As suddenly as it had happened, the lights came on again.

“Must have been a power outage,” Isobel said.

He turned over so he was in a sitting position. Somehow that made it easier to swallow and his eyes weren’t so watery. He was glad of this, because the sight before him should not be blurred in any way.

A naked Isobel.

Unfortunately, her position hunkered before him meant he did not have as good a view as he would have liked. The valley of her breasts was inviting, the soft mounds almost begging him to plump them up with his hands, but her knees hid what he knew to be beautifully pink nipples. Unless they had changed. Perhaps they were darker now, would harden perfectly, even taste different, when he swirled them with his tongue and sucked them into his greedy mouth.

How could he be turned on right now?

“Just take deep breaths,” she said, her hand rubbing his neck softly. Oddly, it reminded him of his mother and how she would soothe him when he lost a game. His father had rarely attended, but his mother had never missed him playing, right up until the day before she left.

This was not where his brain should be going.

“You’ll be fine in a couple of minutes, Vadim.”

Spoken from the depths of experience. How many men had she disabled in this manner?

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he croaked out.

“Well, you did.”

“You’ve done that before?”

“A woman living alone has to be forearmed, even in Canada where the muggers are polite. Do you think you’re okay to stand now?”

He shook his head at such a ridiculous question. He was absolutely fine. He went to stand, but she placed a hand on his arm.

“I should grab a towel first.”

“I do not need a towel.”

She arched an eyebrow. “For me, durák.”

Did she just call him an idiot in his native language?

“Yep. I just did,” she said, reading his mind. “Now turn your head. No peeking.”

Out of respect, he did as he was told, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

“Okay, you can get up now. If you’re able.” She tightened the towel around her breasts, tucking it in to secure it.

He stood, shaking off her helpful hands. Embarrassment had evicted shock.

“I was coming to warn you.” His voice sounded rusty.

“Warn me? About Russian behemoths skulking around the shower room?”

“Yes,” he said, not understanding behemoths but assuming it was an insult. Most everything from this woman’s mouth was. “It is a particular problem in this professional hockey player locker room.”

Guilt flashed across her features. “I’m sorry. I should have known it was someone connected with the organization. Someone who wouldn’t hurt me.”