Then maybe Durand should not be going anywhere that required driving for, oh, hundreds of miles.
“I no longer work for the Rebels org. You fired me, remember?”
“Independent contractor, Pepper. You will do this for me, for the team, and for Durand.”
“What about the NHL, Chicago, and my country?”
“That, too. Call me when you get there.” Click.
13
Pepper stared at the phone, then turned to face Bast.
“Where’s this place in Michigan?”
“It’s Reid’s cottage on the lake. Belhaven Harbor.” He pointed at the GPS. While she’d been talking to her dad, Bast had helpfully inputted the location.
“That’s over 400 miles!”
“You said you needed to get away, and I need a driver. Two birds, one puck.”
She checked the GPS again. Six hours from Chicago. Six hours from the noise and invasion … but she couldn’t spend any more time with Bast. It would be good for neither of them.
“I’d be stuck there.”
“I’m not supposed to drive long distances with my wrist.” Which didn’t address her concern at all—because it was all about him.
“Then hire someone.”
“I’d rather it was you.”
“Well, you can ‘rather’ all you want. I’m not going.”
“You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you a thing! You said back there it was an accident. You defended me.” A foreign warmth pervaded her chest when she remembered exactly how he’d done that. She didn’t hold much truck with violence, but then no one had ever defended her so physically before. It should not be attractive, but apparently those caveman tactics were when utilized by one Bastian Durand.
He glared at her, clearly not as happy to recall today’s disaster of a press conference and the events that put them together in the same car. “Yes, I did. And now you need to do me this favor.”
“That’s not enough to make me your driver to the middle of nowhere. I’d be stuck on that mitten pimple.”
“Mitten pimple?”
She gestured at the GPS. “It looks like a pimple on the Michigan mitten.”
He exhaled noisily. “Get me there, and I’ll hire someone to take you back.”
She shook her head. “I have somewhere to be.”
“You have somewhere to hide. And remember, Coach asked you to do it.”
Ordered her, more like. Of course John Calhoun had told her to drive Mr. Superstar wherever the hell he needed to go, to be his slave because he was an invaluable asset to the Rebels organization. Pepper’s wants wouldn’t rate.
She turned to him. “Did you call him and say you wanted me to drive you?”
“Maybe.”
Maybe? What the hell kind of answer was that?
The air felt strangely charged. She didn’t like the mood that now pervaded the car, like she was in the presence of a man hovering on the edge.
“Why would you do that?”
“Because you and I have unfinished business.”
That sounded vaguely threatening, but also kind of … sexy.
“Are you okay? Because you don’t sound okay.”
“No, I’m not okay. I just want to get some sleep and wake up in a different place, far away from all the shit.” He leaned in close, his mouth slanted in a cruel slash. “So, how about you do as you’re told and drive me to where I need to go?”
“And people say you’re nice. You’re not nice. You were never nice!” She poked a finger in the well of his shoulder.
“Ow.”
“Oh, sorry.”
He growled. “Listen, I don’t want to do anything drastic—” What did that mean? “—but I do need a ride. I’m asking for your help here.”
“This good cop/bad cop thing you’ve got going on is bordering on ridiculous. Which is it? Blackmailer or victim?”
“Whichever works to get what I want.”
Her hormones did not respond favorably to that last statement, uttered with such clarity that it heated her in places that were frigid and action-free of late.
“You are really pissing me off, Durand.”
He placed his forehead on the steering wheel and murmured, “Right back at ya.”
She needed to remember he was the truly injured party here. His career had blown up, and while she wasn’t taking complete blame for it—no more fall girl for Pepper Calhoun—she recognized she had a considerable part in all of this.
What the hell, it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.
“Okay, let’s switch.”
His relief was obvious, maybe even a little knowing. She held up a hand.
“If you’re going to be a smug dick about it, you can find some other idiot to be your lackey.”
“My lips are sealed. Promise you won’t turn the car around. I really don’t want to go back there.”
He sounded so miserable that her heart keened for him. Thing was, she didn’t want to go back there either.
“I promise. I’ll drop you off, and then we’ll figure something out. You can hire a driver to get me back. You can afford that.”
“You can have anything you want as long as you get me to Belhaven Harbor.”
Belhaven Harbor. It sounded nice, like an escape from reality.
But she wondered if the escape was truly better than the disaster she was leaving behind.
Pepper knew she had to focus on the road, what with her precious cargo in the passenger seat. The sky was dark and threatening, though it was barely three o’clock. This wasn’t the time to let her mind wander, yet she couldn’t help thinking of her situation and how it had gone from bad to worse.
Two years ago, she’d been on top of the world. Four weeks into her internship as a preschool teacher at Melrose Prep in Denver, six months from graduating with an early childhood education degree that she’d worked her ass off for, a life she’d crafted with friends and hobbies she loved. So her parents’ marriage was in trouble and her dating life wasn’t anything to write home about, but she had friends and a burgeoning career.
Then she met Kent.
Her brother Connor had just been signed with the Denver Diamonds, and while Pepper had hoped Denver would be hers—like a city of almost three million people could belong to one girl—she recognized that her brother’s pro-athlete presence would change its vibe. Suddenly, her friends wanted invites to games and VIP events, and Connor was always willing to oblige. A notorious party animal, his college years were legendary for their outrageousness, and now she was caught up in it, too. That was how she met Kent, one of his teammates.
She should have realized then and there that it wasn’t a good match.
She slid a glance sideways, checking on Bast. His head had fallen gently against the window and he was snoring lightly, which was good, because she needed him to have some flaw. Some reason to place him at a distance.
There was a small scar above his eyebrow. Good, good—what else? His nose had been broken during that on-ice incident last year when he also broke his wrist. There was a slight crimp at the bridge, so you’d hardly know it had undergone any sort of damage. But she’d compared before and after photos one night and saw the change. It should have diminished him, but of course it hadn’t.