Blindsided Read online

  As Cat headed toward the office on the other side of the main room, Logan stopped halfway and settled down on the corner of Lakisha’s desk. She moved a pile of papers over to make more room for him. Carl Spady was standing behind his desk, yanking open drawers.

  “Good morning, Carl,” Cat said pleasantly from the doorway. “I’ve had Lakisha make a copy of your contract and draw up your payroll check. I’ve also had her get together the paperwork you’ll need if you want to continue your health and insurance policies. You’ll find it all there on your desk blotter.”

  “She’s smooth,” Logan said softly.

  “Yeah,” Lakisha countered, “but Carl’s mind lives in the gutter. It’s going to get ugly.”

  And as if Carl Spady was determined to prove her right, he snarled, “Your brother is rolling over in his grave.”

  “As you may recall, Tom was cremated.” She pointed to somewhere in the man’s office. “Those boxes are for your use. Please feel free.”

  “I brought my own.”

  “Then I’ll thank you for the good years you’ve put into the team, wish you all the best in the future and leave you to your packing.”

  She’d barely started to turn away when Carl said, “I see pretty boy over there. You didn’t waste any time, did you? Can he skate or have you even gotten around to asking him yet?”

  “Walk away, Cat,” Logan whispered. “Walk away.”

  “Five bucks says she doesn’t.”

  And sure enough, Lakisha was right. Cat squared up. For a woman who didn’t like fighting, she apparently knew how to do it. “He can skate with the best of them, Carl. And, in fact, has. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think—”

  “Hey, pretty boy!”

  Logan met the blazing gaze of the other man and silently swore. There was going to be no getting around this.

  Cat took another shot at refereeing, though. “Carl, you’re making an already difficult situation grossly and needlessly unpleasant. Could we please maintain just a shred of dignity and decorum?”

  Carl ignored her. “Is it possible for cold-hearted bitches to be hot in bed?”

  Cat actually staggered back a bit. Logan came off the desk slowly, just so Carl Spady—if he had half a brain in his head—knew that he was very deliberately making the choice to beat the hell out of him. “I’ll take it from here, Catherine,” he said as he moved toward her.

  She turned, her face ashen. “Please don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

  “It’s not up to me,” he said as he stopped in the doorway. He met Carl’s gaze squarely. “My name’s not Pretty Boy. It’s Logan Dupree. And you’ve stepped across the line, Mr. Spady. The lady has gone out of her way to be pleasant about all this, and you’ve done nothing but insult her. Now, you can either offer her a sincere apology, or you can be pitched out into the parking lot. Your choice.”

  “You’re just looking for an excuse to flex your muscles and make her ooh and aaah while upright. Have a little performance problem last night?”

  So much for the Carl Spady and the half a brain possibility. “Three seconds. I suggest you use them to pull your head out.”

  He’d gotten to a silent two when Cat poked her head between his side and the door frame. “Carl, just leave. Please. I’ll have a courier service bring all the stuff to your house later today.”

  Carl’s response was to offer the universal sign of instruction. Cat gasped and Logan left her where she was. “Okay, time’s up and so is my tolerance,” he declared, striding into the office. “You’re out of here.”

  “Logan, don’t!”

  He looked back over his left shoulder to make sure she was still outside the office. And all hell broke loose. He heard it first, on his right, on his blind side, and—like a dumb shit—whirled that way instead of going around from his left. In the split second longer that it took, Carl Spady was out from behind the desk, past him and to the doorway. Logan was facing the right way just in time to see Carl’s hand impact Cat’s shoulder and knock her off her feet. She went back and down, her arms flailing. Her butt hit the carpeted cement floor and her upper body snapped back from the waist, stopping abruptly when the back of her head hit the side of a metal desk.

  Logan was already moving toward her, keenly aware of sounds. Over the pop of the metal, he could hear Lakisha cursing and the main door straining on its hinges. And then there was only silence. A silence in which Cat struggled to sitting and reached for the back of her head.

  Logan went to one knee beside her. “Are you all right?” he asked, even as he lifted her chin so he could see her eyes.

  “I hit my head.”

  Lakisha called, “You check her for a concussion and I’ll go get some ice,” and then she was gone.

  No concussion; he could see that plainly. Her eyes were clear except for the angry tears welling along her lower lashes. “I’m sorry, Cat. I had no idea that the fat, old geezer could move that fast.”

  “He surprised me, too.” She moved her chin from his grasp and swiped her palms over her eyes as she took a deep sniffle. Then she looked back up at him and smiled. “They say fear’s a great motivator. Guess we know now that it’s true.”

  Fear wasn’t anywhere near the motivator big blues were. He couldn’t run, so he did the next best thing—he pretended to be a doctor. “Is your vision blurry at all?” he asked as he checked the back of her head. “Even just the least little bit?”

  “It’s fine. Well, except for the little sparks around the edges every time my heart beats. Which is kinda fast at the moment. Is there blood?”

  He knew all about accelerated heart rates. And his had nothing to do with dealing with Carl Spady. “Nope, just a little goose egg,” he assured her. “I’ve seen lots worse. Some ice and a couple of aspirin and you’ll be as good as new. Well, in a day or two. Knots don’t go down instantly.”

  “Thanks for being a Sir Galahad.”

  “Yeah, it went so well.”

  “Seriously, Logan,” she said, reaching up for the edge of the desk. He stood and extended his hands. As she allowed him to pull her to her feet, she added, “I really appreciate the effort. I can’t tell you the last time—” She swayed and blinked. “Whoa.”

  “I got you,” he said, tightening his grip on her hands and stepping closer. She looked up at him and his mouth went dry. Sahara desert, no-oasis-in-sight dry. He cleared his throat, called himself an idiot, and then said anyway, “Anyone ever tell you that you have the most gorgeous blue eyes?”

  She licked her lower lip. She swallowed. “I’m not a puck rabbit.”

  Something inside him melted. It was a nice feeling. Really nice. He grinned. “It’s puck bunny, sweetie. And no, you’re not.”

  “Really, it’s bunny?”

  “Really. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  Kissing her would be stupid. Crossing the professional line was always a bad idea. Business and personal should never mix. The combination never led to anything except an ugly explosion. He knew all of that. He’d learned it the hard way. He also knew that she would taste wonderful. Soft and luscious and sighing. God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted something so over the line, something he was so willing to get burned for.

  “I knew it! It’s a blonde.”

  Logan looked over his shoulder, hoping it wasn’t. But it was, and—after firmly and repeatedly denying there was any cookie—he’d been caught with his hand on the lid of the cookie jar. There was a tickle of embarrassment for it, but the sensation barely registered. The snarling sound of offended good judgment was louder and way deeper.

  His insides went cold as his heart slid into the iron pit of his stomach. He put on a polite smile, let go of Cat’s hands and stepped back. Then deliberately turned away from the stupidity of temptation.

  Chapter Six

  I n certain respects, things were getting better. Tiny, their Gentle Goliath, had really come through. The piece on his after school reading program that had run in last Su
nday’s paper seemed to have had an effect. The “We Love You, Tiny” signs were the tip-off. That and there were just a lot of kids in the arena for the game tonight. Way more than usual. And since they were too young to drive themselves, there were more adults in the seats, too. From the looks of things, they all were keeping the concession stands hopping. A slice of that pie was going to be nice. When added to ticket sales, she’d be able to not only make payroll next week, but the team wouldn’t have to sleep on the bus when they played in Albuquerque on Friday.

  In other respects, though… Cat took off the headphones and switched off the radio. She didn’t need to hear the commentators’ running analysis to know that things weren’t quite gelling down on the ice.

  Yeah, they were better. Before, there’d been so many penalties that the box officials had had to practically use a shoehorn to get players in and out. Now, it was usually a one-at-a-time thing. At the moment, Matt was serving the last thirty seconds of a two-minute slashing call. A bogus call, she knew. She’d been watching. The Eagles player was a good actor and the ref obviously hated Matt. She didn’t know why. Matt was a really good kid.

  In the larger scheme of things, the Warriors were actually winning a game every now and then. Which was something they hadn’t been doing at the start of the season. Of course it seemed like it happened more by luck than skill, but she’d take them however they could get them. Oddly, though, whether they won or lost didn’t have anything to do with attendance numbers. No, ticket sales had started to pick up when the boys had been forced out into the community to do volunteer work. She could tell by the way the people cheered that they weren’t so much fans of hockey as they were fans of the players.

  Cat couldn’t help but think that was a good thing. Sooner or later their hockey playing days would end; to have community connections then would make finding and starting another career easier. Not to mention a whole lot less personally painful for them. Apparently Tiny was a darn good teacher. She grinned. It was a sure bet that no one was ever going to throw a spit wad at him.

  Okay, so maybe things weren’t just better. They were, overall, much better. Logan had accomplished a lot in the past month. She looked down into the bench area. Logan stood at one end, controlling the comings and goings of the forwards. Jimmy James stood in the middle with his clipboard and pen. Dominic Parisi stood at the other, working with the defensemen.

  What an odd pair Logan and Nic were. They were both in suits and ties, but that was about it for similarities. Logan was cool and composed, sending a player out by simply touching his shoulder, calling them in by a silent jerk of his head. He paced back and forth almost constantly, his arms crossed over his chest and his attention always on the ice.

  Nic on the other hand… Geez Louise, half the time she thought he was going to jump over the boards and into the game. He waved his arms and yelled. He climbed up on the side walls, clung to the glass and yelled. At the top of his lungs. At everyone. The Warriors, the other team, the refs.

  Off the ice, Nic was more civilized. Well, sorta, in a big city East Coast way. She’d been studying him for a month. He’d brought Logan’s things and stayed. First out of curiosity about the weird world in which Logan had been snared, and then to help his deluded friend coach. It was Nic who functioned as the intermediary between her and the team, Nic that she spoke with almost every day, Nic who had taken over Carl’s old office.

  Logan had become someone she waved to across the parking lot. Which was probably for the best. Being around him… Well, she became the village idiot when she was anywhere near him. The last time—on basically the second day she’d known him—she’d been ready and willing to throw decency to the wind and herself into his arms. Lord love a duck.

  Yeah, keeping a safe distance from Logan Dupree was definitely the smart thing to do. The farther the better. It was just too easy to fall under his spell and forget to think. She had enough to worry about without adding the consequences of impulsive actions. Maybe some other time, some other—

  She started at the buzzer and looked at the scoreboard. Game over? Already? She sighed and shook her head. Another one in the loss column. But only by two goals. That wasn’t bad at all. Tomorrow night they could win. They were pretty evenly matched with Tulsa. Three days after that was Albuquerque. That one was likely to be a tougher fight than tonight had been. The Scorpions were good and liked to scrap.

  But winning against the Scorps wasn’t her problem, she reminded herself. It was Logan’s. She snagged her purse and headed out of the box and down the stairs. Her major problem at the moment was meeting Kyle and Millie at the car and then being appalled at how much money Millie had spent in buying the kid souvenirs.

  When it came to her nephew, Millie never even thought about uttering the word no. Indulging Kyle was Millie’s greatest joy in life. And Millie had flat out said she expected Cat to indulge her on the matter. No one, Cat silently groused as she entered the underground tunnels and headed for the parking lot, ever seemed to think that she needed indulging every now and then. She chuckled and had to admit that she had no idea of what she’d ask for even if they did. A Rolls-Royce was just a bit flashy for Wichita. With her kind of luck, any pristine desert island would be wiped off the map by a hurricane. A long bubble bath was already in the realm of possible. So was dinner out at a linen tablecloth restaurant.

  “Simple wants for simple lives,” she muttered as she headed out into the private parking lot. Or was it more a case of simple minds? she wondered as she opened her purse and searched for her car keys.

  “Catherine!”

  She looked up. Her smile died, instantly but not at all painlessly. Millie and Kyle were standing by the Jeep. With Logan.

  Glide, her mind instructed. Be cool. Be smooth. This isn’t high school. “Hi, guys,” she said, her smile firmly back in place as she joined their circle. She looked at her son. “Did you clean out the vendors as usual?”

  “Got some cool posters, Mom. Logan said he’d get them signed for me.”

  Even as he handed them over, Cat shook her head. “It’s Mr. Dupree, Kyle, until permission is given otherwise.”

  “We’ve already covered that ground,” Logan countered, tapping the rolled tubes against his leg. “Permission has been granted.”

  She believed in picking her battles and this one wasn’t worth a fight. Which left her with the need to make small talk. “The team’s looking good.”

  “It depends on who you’re comparing them to, you know?”

  “Well, I’m very pleased with what I’m seeing. I think you’ve accomplished a lot in a very short period of time. I wish I could reward you with a raise, but…” She shrugged.

  He did, too. “It’s not necessary. But we do need to have a personnel talk. It’s time to do some trading.”

  Oh, God. “Who?”

  His gaze went to the back door of the arena, to the bus, and then back to her. “Let’s have the talk somewhere else, okay?”

  “The house,” Millie volunteered. “Why don’t you come by the house? We’re on our way home now. You can follow us.”

  He blinked, shifted his stance, and said, “Umm.”

  Cat added, “Uh,” to the awkward moment.

  Millie beamed. “I’m sure it won’t take long at all for you and Catherine to make your decisions once you have some peace and quiet. And besides, there are some pictures of Tom and you that I’d like for you to have. I know you’ve been too busy to get by for dinner, and I do understand how invitations can be overwhelming when you have so much to do, but surely you can take just a few minutes to come by tonight.”

  He cocked a brow and shot a quick, dark look at Cat. He smiled. “Sure, Millie. No problem. My car’s at the rink, though. I’ll ride back with the team and come over to the house from there. You haven’t moved, have you?”

  “Of course not.” She opened the front passenger door of her Town Car and slid in, saying, “See you at the house.”

  Her door closed just as K
yle opened the rear one and disappeared into the backseat.

  “Just so I can get my ducks in a row,” Logan drawled. “What invitations for dinner?”

  It sounded as though he was accusing her of being a coward. She had a news flash for him. “Between my schedule and the team’s schedule,” she explained calmly, “there hasn’t been an evening open for anyone to come to dinner. I’ve explained that to Millie a hundred times. How that’s all filtered through the dementia, I don’t know. I just go with the flow and do the best I can.” She didn’t add that she’d considered the scheduling conflicts to be a minor blessing. That wasn’t relevant. She’d have bitten the bullet if she’d had to.

  Logan nodded and then backed toward the bus, saluting her with the posters and saying, “Okay. Thanks. See you there.”

  That had gone well. Exceedingly well, Cat thought as she slid behind the wheel and started the car. Her brain had kept working. And her insides hadn’t gone all squishy, either. The last time had to have been because of the blow she’d taken to the head just before it. It was soooo nice to know that there wasn’t a puck bunny deep inside her, yearning to be free.

  “I like Logan. He’s pimp.”

  She looked at her son’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Excuse me?”

  “Pimp.”

  Like that helped, she groused silently as she joined the line of cars streaming out of the lot. “I heard you clearly the first time. What do you think pimp means?”

  “Pimp means cool.”

  Apparently rad and da bomb were now passé. She could hear Martha Stewart saying, And that’s a good thing. “Cool’s the better choice of the two,” Cat observed. “I’d prefer you to use it instead.”

  “Why?”

  She briefly met Kyle’s gaze in the mirror. “Because pimp comes with a set of very negative connotations.”

  “Conno whats?”

  “Con-no-ta-tions,” she said. “Meanings that are implied. Actually, it’s more like value judgments.” The sheriff’s officer waved her out onto the main road and she joined the dash for the interstate. She waited until she was up the ramp and merged in before she added, “I’m sure there are some pimps in the world who are basically nice men forced into their business by deprived childhoods and the lack of legitimate adult employment opportunities, but the rest of us view them as being leeches and abusers and generally unsavory people. To call someone a pimp is an insult.”