“I don’t think this is going to be a strictly business relationship …”

Before Serena could respond, Adam closed the distance between them, pulled her to him and closed his mouth on hers. Hot, determined, possessive, his lips moved over hers. He gave her a moment to accept or reject his caress and she used that moment to angle her body closer, to open her lips in mute invitation.

He took her mouth then, licking into her, giving her a taste of his power and hunger. Which, naturally, incited her own power and hunger. And, oh, she was hungry. He reminded her of how long it had been since she’d lost herself in a man.

A tiny sound came out of her throat, half moan, half purr. He took that as encouragement and pulled her even closer, running his hands over her curves. She felt his arousal as he held her tight against his body, felt her own excitement building within her.

A car with all the windows open, music blasting, roared into the parking lot, and he quickly pulled away, shielding her with his body.

“Aha,” he said.

She gazed up at him, stunned at the strength of her own response. “I don’t date my clients,” she reminded them both.

“I don’t recall asking you for a date,” he said, all sexy and pleased with himself.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I hope so …”

Game On

Nancy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author NANCY WARREN lives in the Pacific Northwest, where her hobbies include skiing, hiking and snowshoeing. She’s an author of more than thirty novels and novellas for Mills & Boon and has won numerous awards. Visit her website, at www.nancywarren.net.

Game On is dedicated to the three real-life sandbox buddies: John, Andrew and Bill. You guys rock.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Excerpt

1

“HEY, DYLAN, GRAB the fire hose,” Max Varo joked as the homemade chocolate cake laden with thirty-five burning candles made its way into the Shawnigan family rec room. The cake wobbled slightly in June Shawnigan’s hands as she broke into a soprano rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” The fifty or so people singing along were assorted friends and family of Adam Shawnigan, June’s baby, thirty-five today.

She suspected his surprise party hadn’t been a surprise for more than a nanosecond—he was a detective, after all—but he was putting on a good face for the celebration.

It was a rugged, handsome face, too, if she did say so herself. She wasn’t the only one who noticed. As she looked around, June could see the expressions on some of the younger women’s faces. Adam was, as more than one young woman had informed her, a major hottie. So why was her thirty-five-year-old major-hottie son still single?

When he’d finished blowing out the candles, and she’d passed slices of cake and forks, she called for quiet and motioned to her husband, Dennis, to dim the lights and push Play.

“No. For the love of God, no,” moaned Adam as the big-screen TV came to life. Oh, she’d surprised him now, she thought with satisfaction as the home movie she’d taken on her first camcorder thirty years ago filled the screen.

Three little boys sat at the picnic table in June’s backyard, all chubby faces and mustard-stained mouths, chomping through hot dogs and potato chips. She must have guessed they’d stay still for at least another minute or two, so she’d grabbed her new camcorder, pushed Record. Of course, at five years old, the three were used to being followed around by eager parents with cameras and barely batted an eye.

She said, “Adam, how old are you today?”

“I’m five,” he said, looking at the camera as though a not-very-bright woman were behind it.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked.

“I’m going to be a police officer,” he said, dipping his hot dog into a pool of ketchup and stuffing it into his mouth. Even then he’d had big blue eyes that were so like his father’s. Then, his mouth full, he mumbled, “Like my dad.”

“Aw,” said a chorus of voices in the living room.

“How about you, Dylan?” she asked the freckle-faced kid next to her son, as if his answer weren’t perched on his head.

He put his hand on the red plastic firefighter’s helmet he’d barely taken off in a year and said, “A fireman.” Dylan was the tallest of the three boys and the most daring. It had come as no surprise to June when he’d been cited for bravery four years ago for rushing into a burning building as it collapsed to save a young woman’s life.

“Amazing,” a voice from the crowd piped up. “Who gets their career right at five?”

“What about you, Max?” she asked the smallest of the three boys. Max Varo at five was very much like Max Varo at thirty-five. He had dark South American good looks and a neatly buttoned shirt that showed no signs of dropped food—unlike the shirts of the other two. He ate tidily and always remembered to say please and thank you. “I am going to be an astronaut.”

“Or a billionaire,” Dylan called out. There was general laughter in the crowded rec room but she couldn’t help looking at Max now. He grinned at the crack, but June wondered how many people realized how bitterly he’d resented the childhood ear infection that had done enough damage to his hearing that becoming an astronaut—or even a commercial pilot—was never going to be possible.

But on-screen it was 1983 and everything was still possible. Because the boys were adorable—and she was of a matchmaking disposition—June then asked, “And who are you going to marry, Adam?”

Laughter and someone shouting, “Yeah, Adam, who are you going to marry?” almost drowned out the little boy’s voice. On-screen he grinned at her and said, “Princess Diana.”

“She’s already married, stupid,” Dylan informed him. Then, unasked, he said, “I’m going to marry Xena, warrior princess.”

“How about you, Max?”

The serious little boy said, “I’m not getting married until I’m grown up.”

She stopped the show there and as the party grew more raucous, she went over to her husband, who wrapped his arms around her. “A dead princess, a comic-book character and a boy who’s waiting to grow up. No wonder they’re all still single.”

“Give them time, sweetie,” Dennis said, kissing the top of her head.

“They’re thirty-five—how much time do they need? I want to take movies of my grandchildren out on that picnic table before I’m too old and weak to hold a camera.”

As though in answer, the three men, still best friends, all tough, loyal, gorgeous and as dear to her as though they were all her children, started one of their complicated bets, the rules of which were known only to themselves. But she wasn’t so clueless she didn’t see where this was going.

“Oh, no. Dennis, are they making a bet to see who can stay single the longest?”

Her heart began to sink as her husband solemnly nodded, and the three men clinked beer bottles. “To the last bachelor standing.”

* * *

“I CAN’T DO IT,” the man at the podium said into the microphone. As his admission of failure bounced through the air, he pushed the mic away with a grunt of frustration and stomped down two steps to throw himself into the seat beside Serena Long. Fortunately, she was the only person in the audience.

She’d decided to have her first session with Marcus Lemming in the auditorium of his gaming empire’s brand-new headquarters here in Hunter, Washington.

“Okay,” she said calmly. “You can’t do it. You can’t give a speech to your potential shareholders. What does that mean?”

Marcus wiped clammy sweat off his forehead with a trembling hand. Instead of answering her, the twenty-six-year-old CEO said, “I’m worth 100 million dollars. I’m a computer frickin’ genius. And when I stand up there, I feel like I’ll throw up.”

“I know. That’s why you hired me.” She loved being a performance coach and she was damn good at it. “I want you to breathe into your fear.”

He stared at her.

“Go on, breathe. Feel the energy, the raw power of that fear. Now, we’re going to take that energy and turn it into positive excitement. You have a great site, a winning formula. No one can sell it like you can.”

“Yeah. Online. I could write a killer email. Why can’t the suits be happy with that?”

She laughed even though she suspected he was only half joking. Fear of public speaking was higher than fear of death on the stress scale to certain people. And she loved them for it. They were making her rich. “I guarantee that if you do the exercises and the work I assign you, in a month you will give that speech. I’m not saying you’ll love every minute of it, but you’ll speak in public and you will do fine.”

“You guarantee it?”

“Yep.”

“You’re that good?”

She grinned at him. “Yep.”

“I can’t even give a speech to one person. How am I going to talk to hundreds, with a media feed broadcasting out to millions?”

“We start small. Okay. Maybe you’re not ready for the mic and the auditorium yet. I’ll get you some water. And then you’ll sit here right beside me and read your speech.”

“My speechwriter said it’s lame to read a speech.”

“Like I said, we start small.”

By the time she left Marcus, he’d been able to read his speech to her without vomiting, crying or fainting. It was a start.

Serena was one of the best at what she did, coaching better performance out of employees, helping superstars fight their demons or overcome their handicaps, whether they struggled with public speaking, learning how to manage people or goal setting. She was part business tycoon, part psychologist and, as a client once suggested, part witch. She wasn’t sure about the last part, but she did have instincts that surprised even her sometimes when she worked what appeared to be magic.

When Max Varo’s name showed up on her call display as she was clicking open the door locks of her car, she answered her cell phone at once.

“Max,” she said, letting the pleasure she felt out in her tone. “How are you?”

“Never better.” He wasn’t one to waste time, not his or hers, so he got right to the point. “I need a favor.”

They’d met in Boston, when both took their MBAs, she with her human resources background, he with astrophysics and a few other degrees under his belt. She considered Max her first success in performance coaching. She hadn’t even realized that was what she wanted to do until she helped him turn his life around and realized she could do the same thing for others.

They’d been friends ever since and he’d sent her some of her best clients. If he needed a favor, they both knew he was going to get it.

“What’s up?”

“You know I play amateur hockey?”

“Sure.”

“Well, our center forward is choking under pressure. He’s a great player all year but when we get to the championships, he just freezes up.”

“Performance anxiety,” she diagnosed.

“I know. But we can’t replace him. He’s the best we’ve got, plus one of my closest friends. I need you to work with him, get him over this choking thing.”

“I’m not a sports coach.”

“Serena, you could get Bill Gates into the NBA if he wanted it.”

“Okay. You have a point. But it’s not really my field.”

“Look at it this way. You won’t get paid, so nobody’s going to judge you.”

She was as busy as she’d ever been, had recently turned down paying work in her chosen field, business, and now she was contemplating working pro bono for a sports guy? If it were anyone but Max...

“I don’t know the first thing about hockey,” she warned.

“You don’t need to know about hockey. His problem isn’t related to stick-handling skills. He’s choking under pressure. Nobody helps a man struggling to find success like you.”

“He’d better be super motivated.”

“Adam Shawnigan is dying to work with you,” he assured her. “I can’t wait to tell him the good news after our game tonight.”

* * *

ADAM LOVED HOCKEY. After a day of precinct coffee, discovering evidence he’d worked months to gather in a murder trial had been deemed inadmissible and getting yelled at by a woman who insisted her taxpayer dollars gave her the right to report her dog as a missing person, it felt good to step out onto the ice.

Out here the sound of a skate blade carving cold, clean tracks helped clear the crap out of his mind. With a stick in his hands and a puck to focus on, he had control over his destiny, even if only for a couple of hours.

Max and Dylan played alongside him, as they had since their parents had signed them up for hockey when they were in first grade. They’d all kept up the game and now played in the same emergency-services league. Most of the players were cops and firefighters, with a few ambulance guys thrown in. Max barely qualified since he was a reserve firefighter, but he paid for the uniforms, so the Hunter Hurricanes weren’t inclined to complain.

Normally they practiced once a week at 5:00 or 5:30 a.m. and played a weekly game, but with play-offs looming, they’d upped their practice schedule and it showed. Well into the third period against the Bend Bandits, they were ahead 3–2. Adam was center forward. With Dylan and Max as wingmen, he felt they were a dream trio. They’d come close to bagging the Badges on Ice championship not once but twice. This time, he told himself. This year that cup was theirs. All he had to do was focus.

Max, the right wing, had the puck and stayed back while Adam and Dylan crossed paths and headed for the offensive zone in a classic forward crisscross they’d practiced hundreds of times. Max then shot a crisp pass to Dylan. They were gaining speed. Adam felt his adrenaline pump. Focus and timing were everything. Max maneuvered himself into the high slot. Dylan, under attack, passed to Adam, who flicked the puck to Max. But the goalie was right on him. Instead of taking the shot, Max tipped the puck to Dylan, who then sent the thing flying past the stumbling goalie and scored.

Magic. They were magic on ice. This year that championship was theirs, and nothing was getting in the way.

After the backslaps and congratulations, the shaking hands when the game was over, the teams headed for the change room. Max said, “Adam, hold up a second.” Dylan hung back, too.

He listened in growing irritation as Max told him about the great “favor” he’d arranged.

“There is no damn way I am letting some bossy do-gooder inside my head,” Adam snapped, sending puffs of white breath into the freezing air inside the rink.

“She’s a performance coach. The woman’s amazing.”

“I don’t need a performance coach. How many goals did I score this season?” He turned to glare at his two best friends.

“How about in play-offs last year?” Dylan asked.

The familiar churn began in his gut as it did whenever he thought about play-offs. “I had a stomach bug or something last year. That’s why I was off my game.”

“And the year before?”

His scowl deepened. “Maybe a case messed up my concentration. I forget.”

“Dude, my grandma could have made the shot you missed last year. The net was open and you missed it! You choked,” Dylan said. “It happens. But we want to win the championship this year. We all want it real bad.”

“So do I!” What did they think? He was the team captain, center. Of course he wanted to win. All he needed to do was focus more. Somehow he’d lost his edge in the last two championship games. He wouldn’t let it happen again.

“Then at least meet with Serena Long,” Max said. “She’s eager to work with you.”

He scowled. Glared at both of them. “She’d better be hot.”

2

SERENA SNUGGLED INTO her black wool jacket, wishing she’d thought to throw a parka into her car when she’d headed out into the early-morning darkness. Except that she didn’t own a parka.

Or skis.

Or snowshoes.

Or a sled.

Or skates.

She didn’t do winter if she could help it. And she certainly didn’t get up at 4:45 in the morning in order to turn up at a freezing-cold rink by 5:30 a.m. to watch a bunch of grown men practice sliding around on the ice chasing a disk. And beating up on each other when they didn’t get it.

The heels on her black boots clacked as she made her way to rink 6. Amazingly, all the rinks in the sportsplex seemed to be full. Sleepy parents with takeout coffees watched kids of all sizes slide around. It was amazing, an entire life that went on while she slept.

When she entered the practice rink Max had directed her to, there weren’t any parents pressed up against the plexiglass looking sleep deprived. In fact, there were only players on the ice and players on the bench. The small seating area was empty.

She wasn’t a hockey fan by any means, but she’d played field hockey in school and figured the basic rules ought to be similar. Max had told her he played right wing, and yep, there he was, one of the smaller players on the ice. The big guy in the middle would be Adam Shawnigan.

She watched him. They seemed to be working on some kind of passing drill. She could feel the concentration of the guys on the ice. With no crowd the sounds were magnified—the scratch of skates, the smack of stick to puck, the groaned obscenities when some guy missed the puck completely.

* * *

WHEN THE TEAM came off the ice, she stayed where she was, interested in studying the dynamics between the players. It was clear immediately that Adam was the leader. Most everyone took the time to comment or joke as they passed him. He had a good word, a laugh or a pat on the back for all the guys. Max and he and a third man she assumed was Dylan, the left wing, remained standing after the rest of the team had ambled away.

She rose and walked down the steps to join the group of three, all of whom turned to watch her approach.

But she was aware of only one of them. The tallest one in the middle.

Max had told her plenty about Adam Shawnigan. His hockey record, his work experience—highlighting some of the more dramatic cases he’d solved—even their childhood exploits.

What Max had neglected to tell her was that Adam Shawnigan was like something out of mythology. Thor, maybe, she thought, recalling the movie her nieces had dragged her to. Gorgeous, tough, larger-than-life. Even sweaty and unshaven, still breathing heavily from the last play, the man exuded sex appeal. When his eyes rested on her, she felt as though he could see all her secrets. It was both intriguing and a little uncomfortable. She preferred to keep her secrets until she felt like sharing them.

His eyes were an intense blue, not the twinkling happy kind but a hard blue that spoke of experiences and memories she was glad she didn’t share. Even if she hadn’t known he was a cop, she’d have guessed either law enforcement or military. Those eyes were watchful, checking her out while giving nothing away. His face was tough and rugged and needed a shave. He had a groove in his chin deep enough to rest a pencil in.

All of which made his mouth the most incredible surprise. Full lips that looked soft and sensitive. He held them in a rigid line, but it didn’t help. Those lips were poutier than a supermodel’s. And if she didn’t stop staring at them, she was going to make a fool of herself.

She shifted her gaze to Max—sweet, comfortable Max—who immediately made introductions. “Adam Shawnigan, meet Serena Long. Serena’s agreed to give you a few coaching sessions.”

Adam opened his mouth, and she could see the words forming, something like I don’t need no stinkin’ performance coach, but then he glanced at Max and she could see they’d been down this road already. He paused, thumped one glove against the other and said, “Yeah. So I heard.”

And this was the guy who was dying to work with her?

She glared at her old friend, got a slight shrug in return.

“When do you want to begin?” Max asked.

“Maybe in a couple of weeks,” Adam said. “Closer—”

She interrupted immediately. He might be king of the rink, but he wasn’t going to rule her. “I got up at 4:45 a.m. and drove all the way out here. I suggest we start now,” she said. She was already giving up her time. She didn’t intend to be dictated to by her charity case.

The charity case spluttered, “I’ve got work. I have to be in the office—”

“I’d really like thirty minutes of your time.” She turned and began gathering her stuff.

Behind her she heard Max speak in a low voice, but not so low she couldn’t hear—which, knowing Max, would be deliberate. “If you screw this up, we’ll be changing the lines for the big game.”

“Says who?”

“The whole team. We talked about it.”

“Dylan?”

She imagined those big lips hanging open in shock.

Dylan said, “It’s about the team. We all want to win this year. At least give her a try.”

There was a pause so pregnant it must have contained triplets.

“Fine,” Adam snapped. “Thirty minutes.”

Dylan banged him on the upper arm as he left. “Looks like you got your wish, buddy.”

Adam grunted.

* * *

“OKAY,” ADAM SAID to Serena Long, feeling sweaty and unkempt in the presence of this woman who exuded control. She reminded him uncannily of a woman he’d once arrested. A renowned dominatrix who went by the name of Madame D. It didn’t help that she was wearing all black—including boots. No doubt it was stylin’, but he had the uncomfortable notion that what was in her briefcase—also black—might be a selection of leather-and-stud instruments.

“Okay?”

“Thirty minutes. I’m all yours.”

“I was thinking—”

“Starbucks around the corner,” he said. “Give me ten minutes to change.”

She regarded him coolly, then nodded.

He headed for the change room, grabbed a fast shower, dragged a razor over his face and was back out, feeling a lot more in control, in fifteen minutes.

Serena Long was where he’d left her, more or less. She had a tablet computer on her lap, her cell phone wired to her head. When she saw him, she said into the mouthpiece, “I have a meeting with a client now. I have to go.” Keeping her eyes on Adam’s, she added, “I don’t want to keep him waiting.”

Ouch.

She put her gadgets away and rose. He followed her out the door. Even the way she walked reminded him of Madame D. That long, easy gait, the subtle sway of her hips. There’d been nothing outlandish about Madame D in her street clothes, either. She’d simply appeared to be a very sexy, beautiful woman. It wasn’t until you got behind the facade that you got spanked.

He had no intention of letting that happen with this woman. Once a man let himself get vulnerable with her type, the next thing he knew she was using his cojones as dashboard ornaments.

He insisted on buying the coffees, which gave him a chance to check out the coffee shop as he did every public place. It was an instinct honed by years of policing. Nothing remotely suspicious seemed to be going on. Most of the clientele consisted of business types grabbing a java on the way to the office. A couple of joggers ahead of him ordered green tea. A few singles sat at tables with computers or newspapers in front of them.

When they were sitting down at a table that was too small for him, as most café tables and chairs were, she said, “So are we going to keep fighting for control?”

Only years of training stopped him from choking on his coffee. How had she read his mind like this? Her cool gaze assessed him. He felt a pull of attraction so strong he could barely focus.

He swallowed the hot, bitter brew slowly. Instead of answering her directly, he said, “I don’t think I need a performance coach.”

“I’ve known Max for a decade. He’s probably the smartest person I’ve ever met. And he’s known you since you all played together in the sandbox. He seems to think you do.”

“Max’s trouble is he’s always the smartest guy in the room. Makes him arrogant.”

She let the words hang for a second, then said, “And your friend Dylan?”

His discomfort with this conversation grew by the second. He fidgeted in the too-small chair, ordered himself to relax. She must read body language as well as or better than he did. He put his elbows on the table. Leaned in. She leaned back slightly in response. Good. Her long hair caught the light and he realized it wasn’t simply black, as he’d thought, but a shifting mix of brown and black. “I didn’t play at the top of my game in the play-offs last year. It happens. Check out the NHL sometime. Best team going into the play-offs loses in the first round. Most expensive player on the team falls on his ass. Like I said, it happens.”

“Your friends seem to think that you didn’t simply have a bad couple of days in both of the last two play-off seasons. They think you choked.”

He was getting more irritated by the second. He wondered how he’d managed to stay friends with such a pair of meddlers for the past three decades. “You should know that if you start putting ideas in a player’s head about choking and performance anxiety, you’re sowing the seeds for trouble.”

“That’s an interesting phrase you use. Performance anxiety. Do you think you suffer from it?”

“No. You’re putting words in my mouth. I—”

“They were your words, Adam.”

“Look, it’s an amateur tournament. We raise money for charity. It’s not the Stanley Cup.”

“Then why are you getting so worked up about this? Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can’t. The best thing that can happen is that I help you improve your playing ability during the play-off rounds. The worst thing that can happen is that nothing changes. Either way, my services are free and all you’re giving up is some time.”

“What about you? What’s in this for you?”

Her fingernails were longer than strictly necessary. He had a momentary vision of her dragging them down his back in the height of passion. He had to blink the crazy mental image away.

“Max is a good friend who’s done a lot to help me build my business. If he asks a favor, I’ll do it. No questions asked.”

It was stupid to feel a pang of jealousy. Max was a great guy and very successful with women. If he and the dominatrix performance coach had a past, it was nothing to do with him. Still, some devil prompted him to ask, “And Max? Would he do anything for you?”

Her gaze stayed level on his. “I like to think so.”

He took another sip of coffee. “I don’t know.”

“It’s up to you. If you’re not willing to work with me, to do any exercises I give you, then we’re both wasting our time.”

“And if I do? If I promise to do your exercises and whatever else you ask of me? Can you guarantee my team will win Badges on Ice?”

When she laughed, her whole face lightened. She had even white teeth, a little wrinkle at the top of her nose that crinkled when she smiled. “If I had that kind of power, I think we’d be sitting here bartering for your soul. At least.” She set her cup down. “Here’s what I can guarantee. If you work with me, you’ll know that your performance is the best it can be on that day. That you’re not getting in your own way.”

There was an uncomfortable ring of truth to those words. Getting in your own way. Did he do that?

“Give an example of one of these exercises.”

“I’ll give you one right now. And I want it completed next time we meet.” She pulled a well-worn leather planner out of her bag. Interesting that for all her gadgets she still relied on paper. “I think we should get right on this. How’s tomorrow at lunch for you? You can pick the place.”

“Yeah. I can do that. What’s the exercise?”

“I want you to go through the plays you messed up on last year’s play-off game. In visual detail, and reimagine them as successful plays.”

“I’ve played dozens of hockey games since last year. I can barely remember the championship game.”

She drilled him with her eyes. “You remember every second of those games. And you’ve tortured yourself over and over again reliving your mistakes.”

“I—”

“Don’t. We both know the truth.”

She was right, damn it, and the uncomfortable silence only confirmed her words. He’d spent sleepless nights going over every second of play, every moment when he should have been on top of his game, and instead he’d felt a big weight on his chest and a strange feeling of panic. He didn’t want to go back there and experience that panic again, not even in the privacy of his home. He wanted to get out there and prove he had the guts and skill to lead his team as he did all year long. To be a winner.

“I’ll try,” he said.

She shook her head. “Let’s work on a different verb. Not try.”

“Okay. I’ll do it!”

“Good.” She put her planner away and glanced at the slim gold watch on her wrist that was so expensive he bet a lover gave it to her. His mind sped to Max, who could afford to buy every watch, watchmaker and watch factory in Switzerland if he so desired. “Well, our thirty minutes are up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He rose as well, mostly because his mother would smack him on the back of the head if she caught him slouching while a woman was leaving.

She held out her hand and as he clasped it, he thought that her long fingers and those red-tipped nails would look just right wrapped around the handle of a whip. Uncomfortable heat coursed through him.

As she released her grip, she said, “By the way, what was your wish? The one Dylan said you got?”

He stared at her for a moment, debating with himself, then decided, what the hell. She’d asked. He leaned a little closer, the way he would if he were at a party wanting to get to know a woman better. “I told Max that if I had to work with a female performance coach, she’d better be hot.”

She didn’t sputter or blush or act coy. She said, “Well, it’s nice to know your friend thinks I’m hot.”

“Oh, he’s not the only one.”

3

WHEN SHE ARRIVED home at the end of a long day, Serena was so tired she wanted to throw a frozen dinner into the microwave, pour herself a huge glass of wine and flop on the couch.

But her blog waited.

She could hear her inner saboteur muttering, I don’t want to blog tonight. I’m too tired.

Negative thinking, she reminded herself. Negative thinking got you exactly nowhere. Her success was the product of hard work as well as talent and she never let herself forget it. She was a big believer in the saying that success was 1 percent inspiration and 99 percent perspiration.

She updated her blog every Monday. In a perfect world she’d update more often, but she tried to use her time as wisely as possible and once a week was a reasonable compromise.

As was a glass of wine, she decided.

She unzipped her boots, put her clothes neatly away and dragged on her oldest, most comfortable pair of jeans and a favorite pink sweater.

Then she poured herself that glass of wine. Instead of the microwave dinner, she took the extra few minutes to put brown rice in the steamer and a chicken breast in the oven and throw together a salad.

She sipped her wine while dinner was cooking and settled herself in front of the computer. In forty minutes she’d have the blog post written and dinner would be ready. She could do this.

She pulled up her website. The woman staring back at her from her home page seemed to have all the answers, all the confidence in the world. She’d paid a professional photographer a lot of money to get that message of confidence across.

To hide the truth that deep inside she was desperately afraid that one day she’d be found out as the fraud she was. That she wasn’t calm and confident. Inside she was the scared little girl who was hungry more often than not. Who collected cans and bottles off the side of the road in order to— Stop it, she ordered herself. She wasn’t that helpless little girl anymore and she’d worked hard to become the woman she now was.

What would she even write about?

“Negative Thinking.” The words were typed before she even realized she already had her topic for the week.

An image of the undeniably gorgeous, rough, tough hockey-playing detective—who was probably as much of a mess inside as she was—rose before her.

One thing you learned when you lived with secrets was that everyone had them.

What were Adam’s secret insecurities? The ones that were keeping him from playing hockey to his full potential? He probably didn’t even know. Neither, at this point, did she.

But they’d find them. He’d be a fun case, she decided. Once she got through his barrier of pride and toughness. There was a guy who didn’t let people in easily.

She knew the type well. She was exactly like him.

He was also her weakness. There was a moment when the screen wavered in front of her eyes and she saw not a blank page but a very sexy image of a tall, rugged, ruthless man who took what he wanted without waiting for permission. She shivered, then shook off the ridiculous fantasy. Adam Shawnigan was a client, not a potential lover. She did not, she reminded herself, have time for a lover.

“Negative Thinking.” The cursor blinked, inviting her to continue.

I know more people who have been brought down by negative thinking than by any other cause. How do you fight an enemy when the enemy is you?

Once she’d begun, the words poured out of her. Before she realized it, she’d written a longer blog post than usual. Her glass of wine was empty, the chicken was cooked and the rice was quietly staying warm for her.

She served herself dinner on the kind of china that she’d seen on TV shows when she was a child. The soap operas her mom loved to watch and her personal favorite, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Watching that show, she’d first begun to realize a person born poor could have a different life. Even now she recognized that a lot of her work was about helping clients live a different life, creating the future they dreamed of.

Sure, she could eat off everyday plates, except that she didn’t own any. When Serena Long ate dinner, she did so on fine china that she’d worked hard to afford. She drank out of crystal glasses and her cutlery was sterling.

While she ate, she checked the email account associated with her blog.

Often she gained new clients or opportunities to speak through her website and blog. Her assistant monitored the emails regularly and passed on anything that needed answering, but Serena also checked in herself now and again.

She pulled up the current emails. There were three. Considering she hadn’t given a speech recently or been mentioned in the media, three was pretty respectable.

The first was a thank-you from someone who had heard her speak and been inspired to face their fear of the water and enroll in beginner’s swimming lessons. Serena experienced the familiar feeling of pleasure when she realized she’d helped someone. A complete stranger she’d never meet but whose life she’d improved, even if only a little bit.

With a smile, she sent a quick message that basically said, “Congratulations! Keep up the good work.”

Then she clicked open the next message.

Hi gorgeous, the message began. I bet you could improve my performance. Want to try? Call me. With a hiss of annoyance, she deleted the message. The amazing thing about the perverts she heard from was how unimaginative they were. Couldn’t they at least put a little effort into their crude attempts to shock her or connect with her or whatever they were trying to do?

* * *

“I DID NOT go behind your back,” Max stated, putting down the heavy chair with a thunk. Adam had called both his supposed buddies to help him move the furniture out of his living room so he could refinish the floors. In truth, he hadn’t planned to sand the floors for a couple of months, but he had a mad-on and experience told him that physical exertion mixed with concentration was the best combination for getting rid of the mad.

Besides, making his sandbox pals come move furniture gave him an opportunity to berate them at the same time as he got free labor out of them.

“You hired a performance coach without telling me.”

“Technically, I didn’t hire her. She’s working for free. And I told you I was going to do it.”

“You didn’t tell me she was coming to hockey practice this morning.” He scowled at the memory of how she’d blindsided him with her cool sexiness and that uncomfortable resemblance to Madame D. His skin prickled with the attraction he was determined to ignore. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Most people would be pretty happy to have a professional performance coach helping them improve their game.”

He felt twitchy and irritable. Unlike himself. Usually if he had a problem, he understood its cause and dealt with the issue, but he’d never been in a position like this before, where he couldn’t control his behavior on the ice. The fact that he didn’t feel in control around the sexy Serena Long only compounded his frustration. “Why is she doing you this favor?”

“So that’s what’s got up your butt,” Dylan commented, flopping onto the couch they were supposed to be moving.

Max gazed at Adam for a long moment. “What did she say?”

“She said she’d do anything for you.”

Max looked inscrutable. But then, Max worked hard at looking inscrutable. “That was nice of her.”

“You’re not answering his question, dude,” Dylan said from his sprawled position on the couch. “He wants to know if you’ve had sex with the woman he’s got the hots for.”

“Is that what you want to know?” Max seemed to find this whole thing highly amusing, which only aggravated Adam more.

“No.” He grabbed his end of the couch and motioned Dylan off it so he could lift the other end. “Okay, yes,” he grunted as they hoisted the thing into the air.

“I didn’t set you two up on a blind date. You’re supposed to focus on improving your game. So why do you care?”

“I just want to know.”

Max carefully placed his chair in the corner of the spare bedroom. Dylan and Adam humped the couch in after him and pushed it against the back wall. “I don’t think I want to tell you.”

Dylan swore. “There’s a cold beer in the fridge with my name on it. I don’t care who slept with who—I just want to get this stuff moved so I can relax.”

They continued moving tables, the TV and a couple of lamps. When they were done, they had nowhere to sit but the old oak kitchen table Adam had refinished himself. He pulled out three cold ones, thumped them down on the table. Regarded Max, who wiped off the top of his bottle before he drank.

“What do you think?” he asked Dylan. “Did he?”

“Sleep with Serena Long? Hard to tell. He’s doing his inscrutable thing. You’re the detective. What do you think?”

“I think he’s playing with me.” He slumped into a chair and grabbed his own beer.

“Yeah,” Dylan said. “Why would sexy Serena sleep with him, anyway? What’s he got to offer a woman like that? A genius brain? Billions in the bank? Those big brown eyes?” Dylan shook his head. “She wouldn’t touch him.” He touched his bottle to Adam’s in a toast. “Not that you care.”

“I don’t.” He tipped the bottle against his lips and hoped the cool liquid would dampen his irritation.

“What are you using on the floors?” Dylan motioned to the now-cleared fir floor. It was original to the old cottage Adam had bought the year before and was slowly fixing up. It was a simple place, rustic and solidly built on a couple of acres of land. He’d known the minute he’d seen the run-down home that this was the renovation project he’d been looking for.

Since it had been rented for years and then left empty for a half a year after that, the place was a little dilapidated. And full of mice. But the old fir floors he’d revealed when he ripped up the filthy threadbare brown shag rug would come back with some work. The walls needed only patching and paint. The kitchen he could live with for a while since he rarely cooked. His first project had been the bathroom, most of which he’d done himself, with the help of a professional plumber. He’d patched and painted all the walls before he moved in, and he lived with the scuffed, scarred flooring.

But now he had a mad-on, and Max had done nothing to dissipate it. The floors were going to be sanded. And hard.

“I’ll rent a commercial sander. See how they come up, then decide. Might do a stain, might just slap on some Varathane to protect them.”

Dylan nodded. He was also a handy type. Unlike Max, who hired everything out and was currently checking email on his smartphone while they talked flooring.

As they finished their beer, the talk veered to people they knew, hockey, the upcoming play-offs.

“That performance coach sure is hot,” Dylan said, seemingly out of the blue. “She single?”

“As far as I know,” Max said. “Why? Are you interested?”

“Hell, no. I’m interested in winning the bet. I figure you’re both so competitive that if you two are going to fight over a woman, one of you will end up with her. Leaving me closer to winning the bet.” He grinned. “All those seasons of watching Survivor are paying off.” He raised his beer bottle in the air. “To the last bachelor standing. Me!”

Max still hadn’t volunteered the information Adam wanted by the time the guys were leaving. As they headed out the door, Adam turned to Dylan. “Why are we still friends with this guy?” he asked.

Dylan regarded Max. “He’s short and a weenie. Makes us look good.”

4

AFTER HE WATCHED the news, Adam was too restless to turn in. He flipped on his computer to check his email. Nothing of much interest. Ever since his old buddy had arranged a performance coach for him, hints of his play-off panic had begun to return. Today, in the presence of the sexy coach, Adam had felt his discomfort like an itch.

On a whim, he did a Google search of Serena Long. Of course she had a website. He should have known she would. All slick and professional, the site looked and felt expensive. The woman staring at him from his screen also seemed slick and professional—and expensive—with that hint of danger he’d detected.

Dylan was right, of course. He did want Serena Long. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had struck him like that, like a walking fantasy.

Some effusive comments about how wonderful she was, written by people he’d actually heard of, peppered the main page of her site. She’d authored a book that you could click to and buy right from the front page, naturally. The click of another button would give you details on inviting her to be a keynote speaker at your next big event.

And then she offered words of wisdom on her blog.

He rolled his eyes. Who didn’t have a blog these days?

He clicked through to it. And found a post dated today. “Negative Thinking.”

It was what she’d been talking to him about earlier. And she’d posted only a couple of hours ago. He settled back and read what she’d written.

Apparently, negative thinking was bad. He shook his head, wondering why he was wasting his time with a woman who was going to spout the obvious, but continued to read. And realized quickly that she was imparting some truly good advice. This wasn’t simply a “Rah, rah, you can do it!” post but an article that contained links to research on brain function and referenced B.F. Skinner and behavior modification. Good old B.F. He’d studied him in college. The man had conducted a lot of experiments involving pigeons, if he recalled correctly.

Behavior modification was all about rewards for the new behavior. Serena argued that weight-loss programs like Weight Watchers were based on building a new routine, like eating better, and receiving rewards in the form of encouragement at group meetings or online, rather than simply feeling bad about being fat. Made sense, he supposed. For him, going to the gym regularly meant he skated a little faster when he needed to or noticed a little more power and agility in his stick handling.

Her article went on to say that negative thinking and the self-destructive behavior that came out of it also had to have some kind of perceived reward or no one would engage in it.

His snort of disgust was loud in the quiet house.

He thought of the times he’d screwed up in the championship games and felt the familiar churn of self-disgust. What the hell had happened to him?

He’d choked. He could argue all he liked that it was just fatigue, a flu bug, preoccupation with work. But he knew, and he was pretty sure the entire team knew, that his problem came from inside.

Did this crackpot performance coach seriously think he got a reward from humiliating himself and letting down his team?

He turned off the computer and went to bed. But sleep didn’t come. What kind of reward could he possibly get for choking under pressure?

With a curse, he flipped on the bedside light, went to his spare-room office and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and crawled back into bed.

She’d asked him to go through everything that had happened that day. He supposed now was as good a time as any.

If Serena Long could figure out how he was rewarded for choking, she was worth all the big bucks they weren’t paying her.

He found himself looking forward to their next session. Not only because he wanted to be fixed but because he wanted to see her again. He’d never been the bondage and S-and-M type, but when he recalled the way that black-clad coolly sexy woman had looked at him, he began to understand the appeal.

* * *

SERENA CONSIDERED THE elliptical trainer at the gym one of her best friends. The machine was a time-efficient workout, improving her cardio and her lower and upper body while at the same time allowing her to catch up on the day’s news via a headset and inset TV monitor.

While she pedaled in endless ovals and pushed and pulled the handles, she absorbed the day’s news. It was the usual mishmash of drama, despair, politics and business with a few cute human-interest stories thrown in.

The upcoming IPO for Marcus Lemming’s company, Big Game, was mentioned. She suspected she was going to have to up her sessions with Marcus given the level of media interest. His was a classic geek-makes-good story of a quiet nerd with few social skills who’d parlayed an adolescence spent in his bedroom gaming into a terrific business. The trouble was that he hadn’t had the time, skills or inclination in high school to do all the things most other boys do, like converse with girls, date, interact socially, play sports. It was easy to find the source of his problem and fairly easy to fix it.

Her tougher client seemed to be Adam, a guy who’d clearly misspent his teenage years to the hilt. He had the unconscious confidence of a man who was a high school jock, popular with both sexes, smart enough to get by but not freakishly intelligent. According to Max he was a terrific hockey player and a dedicated detective. Why would a man like that have performance anxiety?

Max had no idea. She suspected from her brief meeting with Adam that he didn’t know, either. She wondered if he’d spend the time and effort required to work through his feelings about choking under pressure during the play-offs. And if he did the work, would he be self-aware enough to be able to diagnose his own ailment?

Frankly, she doubted it.

As her workout ticked toward the thirty-minute mark, her legs began to feel pleasantly tired. Another fifteen minutes of a strength-and-stretching routine designed for her by a personal trainer to provide the maximum workout in the minimum time, and she was done. Serena worked out every weekday at the gym and had her routine so well honed she could be showered, changed and heading to her office within an hour of entering the gym.

Since she arrived and left at approximately the same time every day, she had a nodding acquaintance with a number of other prework clients. Today Stanley Wozniak, a quiet hospital worker who had a similar workout schedule, took the elliptical next to hers. She smiled at him and he blushed deeply. Which he did every morning. It was obvious that he had a crush on her. She only hoped that he was too shy ever to ask her out and embarrass them both.

She might spend only thirty minutes on the elliptical but she liked to give it her all. At the end of half an hour she was breathing hard and sweating so profusely her shirt clung to her. When she moved on to the free weights, her trainer, Tim Patterson, strolled by. He wore the standard uniform of black sweatpants and a black T-shirt advertising the gym, and he filled both out to mouthwatering perfection. Of course, he knew it. An Australian who’d originally come to the United States to work in a ski resort, he’d stayed and was one of the most popular trainers. “How ya goin’, Serena?” he asked her.

“Hi, Tim. I’m fine.”

He stopped, adjusted the line of her shoulders, and ran a hand down her spine in a professional, friendly manner. “Keep your back straight.”

He watched her do a couple of reps and nodded. “Nice.”

“Thanks.” She took a private session with Tim every month so he could change up her routine. In the year they’d worked together, they’d formed an easy, friendly relationship. Often, as now, he’d keep an eye on her in between sessions.

He didn’t move on immediately. After glancing right and left, he said, “I heard Stanley changed his shifts at the hospital so he could work out every day at the same time as you.”

Stanley’s little crush had never bothered her, but the idea that he’d change shifts to spend more time sweating beside her was a little alarming.

She narrowed her eyes, letting the weights down easily at her sides. “Reliable source?”

Tim’s blue eyes crinkled in his tanned face. It was as though he’d been in the sun for so much of his life that his face was permanently bronzed. “Pretty reliable. He told me himself.”

She began her second set of lifts. “Why would he tell you that?”

“Because I asked him. That bloke’s got a serious jones for you.” They both glanced over at where Stan was wiping down his machine, which meant he’d soon follow her to the weight area. “He’s a nice guy. You could do worse.”

“I don’t think his little crush is too serious,” she grunted. “And why is the second set always so much harder than the first?”

“Because you’re working a tired muscle. Keep it up. You’re doing great.” He adjusted her shoulders once more and then patted her back before moving on.

But he left her with a crease between her brows. Was Tim telling the truth? She suspected it might be time to casually mention to Stanley that she had a boyfriend. It was time to resurrect Fictitious Fanshaw.

Even if she had been attracted to Stanley, which she wasn’t, her schedule was too full to take on a man. To conduct any kind of a full relationship, she’d have to give up something else. And it had been a long time since she’d met a man interesting enough to make her consider restructuring her routine. An image of Adam rose in her mind, all tough and rugged and gorgeous. She did not, she reminded herself sternly, have time for a man!

Nip the Stanley situation in the bud, she decided as she showered.

Consequently, when Stan emerged from the men’s change room, she was in the foyer conducting a one-sided cell phone conversation. “Okay, darling,” she said, nice and loud so Stanley wouldn’t miss a word. “I’ll pick up the wine. You pick up the steaks.” She laughed softly. “Love you, too, Adam.” She ended the call.

Adam? The name had popped out while having a pretend conversation with no one. Why, oh why, would she picture Adam when she imagined a lover?

Stan looked so sad as she waved to him on the way out that she felt rotten.

Well, she’d taken care of the Stan situation. Now she had to nip her own little crush in the bud. She worked with men all the time. CEOs of Fortune 500 companies, athletes who were household names, celebrities who suffered inexplicable stage fright. Sure, she’d experienced the odd thrill of being one-on-one with the rich, powerful and famous, but she never found herself fantasizing about them. Why should one rugged, uncooperative cop throw her off her stride?

She shook her head. It was going to have to stop.

When she arrived at her office, her assistant, Lisa, was already there. “What’s the matter?” Lisa asked. “You look so serious.”

“I was nipping buds.”

The younger woman nodded. “Oh.”

A psych major, Lisa had taken the job of Serena’s personal assistant in order to gain job experience in the field of psychology. At twenty-three, Lisa was full of energy, keen to learn and packed with book knowledge that sometimes came in handy. Serena suspected she’d lose her PA in a couple of years, either so Lisa could pursue an advanced degree or so she could move to a more senior job, but for now the arrangement worked for both of them.

Her big blue eyes and Cupid’s-bow mouth made her look as innocent as a milkmaid, but Lisa combined street smarts with school smarts. A scholarship student, she’d worked her butt off to get into college and to keep up her GPA while attending school and juggling part-time jobs. Nobody had more respect for the process than Serena, who’d done the same thing a decade earlier.

“Anything interesting happen yet?”

“Marcus Lemming asked to come in and see you. You had a slot at eleven, so I put him in for an hour.”

She nodded. “Okay. I usually go to his office. I wonder why he’s coming here.”

“He didn’t say. Also, I forwarded an email to you about speaking to an engineering company. I’m going through the rest of the mail now. I’ll forward anything good.”

“Great. I’ll go check.”

She took a couple of steps toward her office when Lisa’s voice stopped her. “Oh—” Her voice sounded as if it had been cut off.

Serena turned. “What?”

“A creepy email.”

“Oh, yeah. I thought I deleted that. It came last night.” She shook her head. “You’d think perverts would have more imagination. Performance coaching. Ha, ha. I get it.”

Lisa didn’t smile. “This isn’t one of those messages. It seems kind of threatening.”

“What?” Serena didn’t waste time going to her own computer and firing it up. Instead she stepped behind the reception desk and peered over Lisa’s shoulder.

Interesting post tonight, Serena. Negative thinking. Think about this. You think you’re better than fear? No one is. I can make you scared. I know you. I’m scaring you right now.

Watch your back, bitch. I will teach you what real fear is.

The message ended with a smiley-face emoticon, which, strangely, added to the nastiness.

5

SERENA STOOD THERE FROZEN, stuck in the moment as though she’d been superglued there.

She forced herself to step back from Lisa’s computer. “Well, somebody’s got a strange sense of humor.”

“I don’t think they’re being funny,” Lisa said. She rubbed her arms and Serena saw goose bumps there. “I don’t like it.”

“I’m not thrilled, either, but it’s only somebody at a computer terminal sending an anonymous message.”

“Have you pissed anybody off lately?”

She could think of only one person, but Adam Shawnigan was in law enforcement and definitely not the kind of guy to send creepy messages. He was up-front about his frustration.

“No. I don’t have enemies. I specialize in positive thinking, improved self-image. I pump people up. Who would threaten me?”

“I think you should call the police.”

“Why? Because some lonely weirdo tried to scare me? I won’t give in to fear. I won’t.”

“Okay. But I’m keeping the email. If you get any more, I really think you should report the guy.”

“So long as I ignore him, I’m sure there won’t be any more.”

She tried to put the email out of her mind, but the vague threat had lodged and didn’t want to budge. She ignored her discomfort by getting busy with work. She called the engineering firm and accepted an invitation to speak at their yearly conference, which would be held in Chicago three months from now. Then she worked on a draft of the column she wrote for a business magazine every other month.

Even as she wrote about the importance of holding positive messages in one’s mind, a very negative message whispered over and over: I will teach you what real fear is.

When Marcus Lemming arrived at eleven, she was staring out of the window, something she never did.

Irritated with herself for being unnerved by a childish prank, she forced herself to smile at Marcus and invite him to sit down at the round table she kept in her office for small meetings.

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

He didn’t meet her gaze, keeping it on the computer bag he carried around with him the way a child would carry a beloved teddy bear.

“I need to talk to you about fear.”

* * *

ADAM RAN AROUND his neighborhood.

He’d never been one to be cooped up in a gym. To him running on a treadmill was like trying to get somewhere in hell. He liked to feel the air on his skin, see what was going on around him. He often tried out different routes, so he had a pretty good sense of his neighborhood. He knew which roads had wide shoulders and thin traffic. He had learned which dogs always came out barking or sniffing and took a wide berth around the home of Rex, the Pomeranian who’d once taken a chunk out of his ankle.

As he pounded out the miles, he pondered. Cases under investigation, usually, but this morning he was thinking about hockey. About negative thinking. And how the hell the two got mixed up in his mind only during play-offs.

Didn’t make sense.

He was a detective. Nothing drove him crazier than things that didn’t make sense. He ended his run at a public park with an outdoor gym and dropped to the ground for a hundred push-ups and the same of abdominal crunches.

He was an early riser and finished his shower with a good half hour to spare before he was due at the office. So, as he did at least once a week, he dropped by his parents’ place, which was on the way to work.

His dad had retired from the force at fifty-eight and now, in his early sixties, seemed to spend most of his time planning elaborate cross-country trips in an RV and doing community work. He was often at meetings of one community group or another.

When Adam arrived at the back door, his mom hugged him, as she always did. “I had a feeling you’d come,” she said. “I baked muffins.”

“You never bake muffins for me,” Dennis complained.

“They’re for you, too,” she insisted.

Adam sometimes wondered if his mother had taken lessons from the TV since she was more like a screen mom than any of his friends’ mothers. She baked from scratch, she sang to herself when she cleaned the house and she’d volunteered so much at school when he and his sister were growing up that he sometimes felt he’d seen her more than he’d seen some of his teachers.

Almost as amazing, she and Dennis had been happily married for almost forty years.

She put three muffins on his plate, poured him a mug of coffee exactly the way he liked it and placed the works on a floral place mat on the kitchen table, complete with a matching napkin. His father got only one muffin, but Adam didn’t comment. He knew the diet his doctor and wife had forced on him was a sore point with his dad.

When they sat down, Adam’s mom placed glasses of orange juice in front of both men.

“Roy Osgood decided to stay on as president of the local Rotary Club for another year,” his dad said before biting into his muffin.

Adam got the feeling this was part of an ongoing discussion, guessed his dad had been interested in the post himself.

He watched as his mom ruffled her husband’s hair fondly. “Not everyone can be president, honey. Besides, it’s the worker bees who really contribute to an organization, much more than a man with a gavel.”

“I know. I’m staying on the gardening committee. There’s a lot to be done.” He turned to Adam. “We’re trying to get rid of invasive nonnative weeds in the public parks. It’s amazing what damage those things can do.”

“I know. My yard’s full of them. Can’t you make my place a community project?” he joked.

“You know I’ll come anytime.”

“Yeah. Truth is, I want to get the inside fixed up before I put much energy into the landscaping.”

He ripped a muffin in half. It was steaming and full of good-for-you-looking grains and blueberries. Stuffed it in his mouth.

“I thought when you bought that house you might settle down,” his mother said. “I could not believe it when I heard you and Max and Dylan make that stupid bet about the last man standing. Why don’t you want to get married?”

“Because you’ve spoiled me. Where would I get a woman like you?” he said before stuffing the second half of the muffin into his mouth. He was only half joking.

* * *

“WHAT ABOUT FEAR?” Serena’s voice was sharper than she’d intended and Marcus blinked at her.

“Remember? You said for some people fear of public speaking is worse than their fear of death. I think you even blogged about it.”

Her hand drifted to her throat. “You read my blog?”

He stared at her the way she imagined he’d stare at his computer screen when a piece of programming didn’t behave logically. “You suggested I read your blog.”

She had to shake this foolishness. “Of course I did. I’m just surprised you found the time.” She sat down, pulled out a pad of paper. “Okay,” she said. “You want to talk about fear.”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I develop games because that’s what geeky kids with no friends do. Except I turned out to be really, really good at it. Now I’m worth millions and own a big company and most of the time I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

She nodded. This was familiar territory. She’d worked with athletes and musicians, people who suddenly found themselves famous, rich and with responsibilities they hadn’t anticipated. They hadn’t had the time or training to prepare themselves mentally or physically.

“Your whole life has changed,” she told him. “Sometimes people feel as though they don’t deserve their good fortune, so maybe they sabotage themselves.”

“You mean like Trog in ‘Third Circle’?”

He’d referenced his own game, which was good. Except that it was one of those violent point-and-shoot games, so clearly for the teenage-male market that she hadn’t been able to play it after the second blasted and bleeding alien hit the ground groaning.

She took a wild guess. “In ‘Third Circle’ doesn’t your hero have to perform certain tasks to get to the next level?”

“You mean like vanquishing death meteors?”

“Exactly like vanquishing death meteors. Why don’t you work on that? Imagine that your fear of public speaking is your death meteor. How are you going to extinguish it and move to the next stage? Remember, you’re the hero of your own game.”

He was nodding, looking not enthusiastic exactly but more engaged than he had been last time she’d seen him.

“I could do that. I think.”

“Okay.” She saw that noon was fast approaching and she had a meeting with Adam at twelve-thirty. It didn’t matter to her that he was a pro bono client and Marcus was paying big bucks. She didn’t make schedule changes if she could help it. She rose. “All right. I think we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough. Why don’t we schedule you another session right here in my office? Maybe it’s good for you to get away from your own building for a while.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

She walked him out to the front. Lisa glanced up from her computer, quickly removing her glasses.

“Marcus needs another appointment. Can you schedule it?”

“Yes, of course.”

Lisa glanced up at Marcus. “I have to tell you, I really love ‘Third Circle.’”

Marcus dropped his gaze immediately to his computer case and mumbled, “Cool.”

“When’s ‘Third Circle: Zombie Apocalypse’ coming out?”

Marcus looked up from his computer case the most animated Serena had ever seen him. “It’s going to be so rad. We’re working out a couple of kinks. Can’t get the zombie blood right. I mean, what color is zombie blood?”

“Do zombies have blood?”

“Excellent question.”

Serena could not believe two intelligent, educated adults were having a conversation about the color of zombie blood. But it gave her an idea.

When the two paused in the midst of their geekfest, she said, “Marcus, why don’t you try reading your speech to Lisa?”

“What, now?”

She’d meant at a later appointment and was about to say so when Lisa said, “Sure. That’d be sweet. Unless you have somewhere you have to be.”

“No,” Marcus replied. “I do most of my work at night.” He shrugged. “Habit of a lifetime. I’d like to read it to you.”

“Awesome.”

“Okay,” Serena said. “I’ll be back in the office at two.”

“Sure,” said Lisa, not even glancing her way. “See you then.”

As she was leaving the office, she heard Lisa say, “If there really was a zombie apocalypse, where would you hide?”

“No, see, that’s a mistake a lot of people make. You can’t hide. You have to run.”

* * *

ADAM WAS WAITING at the restaurant when she got there. She’d let him choose the venue and he opted for a Mexican restaurant. “Sorry,” she said when she arrived a couple of minutes late. “I got caught up in the zombie apocalypse.”

Her client looked more relaxed than he had the last time she’d seen him, in well-worn jeans that showed the powerful muscles in his thighs and a navy sweater.

“Huh?” he said.

“Do you have opinions on whether it’s better to run or hide during the zombie apocalypse?”

He blinked at her. “Have you been drinking?”

She smiled. “Thank you, Adam. I feel so much better.” She settled at the table. He’d taken a seat with his back to the wall and she saw him scan the crowd, no doubt looking for lawbreakers or potential trouble. She doubted he even noticed he was doing it. The decor was typical. Tiled floor, rustic wooden tables, sombreros and Mexican kitsch on the walls. Mariachi music played, but softly, so you could hear yourself think. “What’s good here?”

“Everything. I like the enchiladas myself.”

She nodded, scanned the menu rapidly. Chose a taco salad. As soon as she closed her menu, a waitress appeared and they gave their orders. A basket of tortilla chips and salsa arrived almost immediately, with the iced teas they had both ordered.

“So? Did you do your homework?”

“Yes, teacher. I did my homework.”

She felt a smile pull at her lips. She was relieved he’d dropped the attitude. He’d clearly made his peace with working with her, which gave them much better odds of figuring out the root of his problem.

“Good. Did you discover anything interesting?”

“You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not if I can help it. The sooner you have your issues under control, the sooner you can live up to your full potential.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asked as though he really wanted to know.

“Yes. Of course I do. It’s what my entire career is based on.”

Those blue, blue eyes of his made her forget this was a lunch meeting and imagine, almost wish, it were a romantic get-together. A date. The kind where you bolt your food because you’re so anxious to get home and get naked. “Maybe some people aren’t meant to do great things.”

She bet he could do great things in bed, then was shocked to realize that her thoughts were taking a whole different path than their conversation.

“Of course they aren’t. So long as you feel you are living the life you want, that you aren’t getting in your own way, I have no quarrel. I know people doing menial work at minimum wage who are happier than you or I will ever be. They find real satisfaction in what they do. They are living up to their potential. In your case, with the Hunter Hurricanes, you play at peak performance all year until the play-offs and then your game suddenly deteriorates. Why? That’s what we want to work on.”

“It was weird. I started writing out the games like you told me to and I got this feeling, like guilt, that came over me. It got hard to breathe and I had trouble staying in my chair to write it all out.”

He reached for a wad of folded paper in his pocket but she stopped him. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, I remember last year’s championship pretty clearly. Game was tied 2–2. And frankly, they never should have got two goals. Our defense was sloppy—mostly, though, our offense was weak. So I’m open. I yell. Dylan shoots me the puck. I’ve got a clear shot at goal. I mean, you could have nailed the shot. No offense.”

“None taken. What happened?”

“The game was won. It was over. A little tap of my stick on the puck and the cup was ours.”

“And?”

She heard a sound that might have been his teeth grinding together. “I missed the puck.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I shot and missed the damn puck. A three-year-old with a plastic stick could have got that puck in the net.”

“Interesting.” She sat back and thought about what he’d told her. “What do you think you felt guilty about?”

“I don’t know. It’s like I wasn’t supposed to win the game.”

“You weren’t supposed to win the game,” she parroted. “According to whom?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Who has the power to make you play at less than your best?”

“I do!” The words exploded from him. She felt his frustration and imagined writing out the games had been a difficult exercise.

“Of course you do. But someone or something else is sending you messages. I want you to think about that. Go through your day and really listen. Whose standards are you trying to live up to? A coach’s? A teacher’s? A parent’s? A boss’s? Some kind of authority figure, probably from your childhood, has buried these land mines in your subconscious. It’s up to you to find them and disarm them before they do any more damage.”

“What am I listening for?”

“When have you heard these messages before? You can go back to childhood and listen to the past. Replay conversations you can remember, particularly if they were around winning and success. See what comes up for you.”

“How will I know when I find it?”

She loved how focused he was, how he gave her every scintilla of his attention. She had another momentary flash of being naked with him and shivered. Found her own focus—on the damned topic at hand.

“I remember working with a woman once who could not communicate anger. She was the worst doormat you’ve ever seen. Everyone in her life took advantage of her and she let them. It was making her ill. Actually ill. She got migraines and more colds and flu bugs than anyone I’d ever met. When she did this exercise, she started hearing her mother’s voice saying, ‘Good girls never show their temper.’ When she was young, if she yelled, she was punished. So she learned never to show her anger. Always to show a smiling face to the world and do whatever anyone asked of her. Once she recognized that she’d taken those messages inside and gone completely overboard, she was able to work on expressing her feelings.”

“Wow.” He looked genuinely impressed.

“There’s a kind of resonance when you see the pattern. An ‘aha’ moment. Chills down the back of your neck. You’ll know it when you experience it.”

She watched him polish off the last of the largest plate of enchiladas she’d ever seen.

“What was it for you?” he asked when he’d swallowed. “Your ‘aha’ moment.”

She smiled at him. “One day I’ll tell you. But today we’re focusing on you.”

“One day I hope you’ll tell me a lot of things.” His voice was warm, intimate. She felt the pull of attraction so strongly she knew she was lost.

There was a beat of silence. Their gazes stayed locked. Then she forced herself to pull them back to the reason for their lunch. “Why do you play hockey?” she asked him.

He looked at her as though this were some kind of test question. “Because it’s fun.”

“Good. That’s excellent. That’s exactly why you should play a game. What do you like best about it?”

He reached for the basket of tortilla chips and chose one. “I like the game itself. Strategy, when a play works, scoring a goal, but most of all I like the camaraderie. After a game we’ll have a beer in the dressing room and talk about stuff. Joke around.” He put the chip in his mouth. Crunched down.

“Male bonding.”

“Yeah.”

He chomped more chips. She got the feeling that if he’d known her better, he’d have reached for the half of her salad that she hadn’t been able to finish.

“All right. Here’s your homework for next week.”

“Will it give me writer’s cramp?”

“No. I want you to listen for those messages we were talking about earlier. If you can find the source, then we’re going to be close to improving your performance.”

“Okay.” He scooped the last three chips out of the basket, swooped them through the remains of the salsa.

“And I’m going to give you a couple of mantras.”

“Couple of what?” A bright red drop of sauce sploshed on the table as he halted the chips a couple of inches from his mouth.

“Mantras. Affirmations. Statements you repeat many times throughout the day, especially right before you play. She pulled a notebook and pen from her bag. Spoke aloud as she wrote.

“First one—it’s okay to win. Second—I am allowed to win. Third—hockey is fun. I love it and don’t take it, or myself, too seriously.”

“Oh, the guys are going to love hearing me mutter that crap before every game.”

“You can repeat it silently.” She watched him fiddle with the ceramic donkey salt and pepper shakers. “Adam.” She waited until he met her gaze. “You have to trust me.”

“I do or we wouldn’t be here.” His eyes continued to stare into hers and she felt warmth kindle in her belly. She saw his desire for her, felt her own reflected. To her consternation, she dropped her gaze first. “Good,” she said briskly.

When they emerged into the parking lot, he walked her to her car. It was kind of sweet and old-fashioned and she loved it.

As soon as she’d unlocked her car, he opened the door for her. She glanced up. “Thanks.” Found him far closer than she’d imagined he’d be. So close she could see the stubble forming on his skin, the intense expression in his eyes.

“Serena,” he said.

“Yes?”

“I’ve had an ‘aha’ moment.”

“Really? What is it?”

“I don’t think this is going to be a strictly-business relationship.” Before she could respond, he’d closed the tiny distance between them, pulled her to him and closed his mouth on hers. Hot, determined, possessive, his lips covered hers. He gave her a moment to accept or reject his caress and she used that moment to angle her body closer, to open her lips in mute invitation.

He took her mouth then, licking into her, giving her a taste of his power and hunger. Which, naturally, incited her own. And, oh, she was hungry. He reminded her of how long it had been since she’d lost herself in a man.

A tiny sound came out of her throat, half moan, half purr. He took that as encouragement and pulled her even closer, kissing her deeply and thoroughly. She felt his arousal as he held her tight against his body, felt her own arousal blast through her.

A car with all the windows open blasting music roared into the parking lot and he quickly pulled away, shielding her with his body.

“Aha,” he said.

She gazed up at him, stunned at the strength of her own response. “I don’t date my clients,” she reminded them both.

“I don’t recall asking you for a date,” he said, all sexy and pleased with himself.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I hope so.”

She still had the shivers down the back of her neck as she got into her car and drove away.

6

ADAM COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time a kiss had knocked his socks off like that. That woman was something, he decided, as he thought about the previous day. He’d have her in his bed sooner rather than later. He was already enjoying the anticipation.

His partner, Joey Sorento, wasn’t sharing Adam’s good mood. In fact, Joey seemed to grow more pessimistic with each passing day. He had a dream of moving back to his family’s ancient vineyard on Sicily where Sorentos had been making some of the best extra-virgin olive oil in the world for centuries. But he needed money to buy the place from his aging grandparents. He watched the stock markets the way fishermen watch the weather. Based on observation, Adam didn’t think his partner was much of a stock picker.

Despite being a Sicilian, Joey didn’t have the vaguest connection to the Mob. Didn’t matter. He was known around the precinct as Joey the Virgin. Most everyone called him Virge.

They’d been sent out to investigate a suspicious death in a leafy neighborhood in one of the more expensive suburbs of Hunter.

“Who called it in?” Adam asked as they drove.

“Neighbor. She went in to water plants. The guy was supposed to be in Hawaii for the winter but when she went in this morning, she found him dead.”

Pretty much any time someone died at home, their death was deemed suspicious, except in cases of terminal illness. Most of these calls turned out to be natural deaths—heart attacks, strokes, choking. Or suicides. When they arrived at 271 Greenleaf Road, everything seemed calm. They entered through a gate, walked up a brick path and before they’d reached the front door, a woman appeared behind them. “I’m Vera Swann. From next door,” she said. She was in her sixties. A prosperous-looking woman. She seemed a little shaken. “I thought Norman was in Hawaii. I went in to water his plants, like I always do when he’s away.” She put her hand to her heart. “And I found him. I’m sure he’s dead. I used to be a nurse. I called 911. You beat the ambulance.”

“Can you let us in?” Virge asked.

“Yes, of course.”

The house was modern in design but smelled musty and sort of damp. As if it had been shut up for a while. Vera Swann led them into a den/TV room and there was Norman, still in his bathrobe. A newspaper was open on his lap and his head was tilted forward.

Adam approached, checking the area as he did so. Nothing suspicious. He checked the guy’s pulse. The skin was already cold and waxen. He nodded. “Dead.”

“Looks like a jammer,” Virge said.

“Yep. Or a stroke.”

“Coroner will figure it out, I guess.”

Because they were there, they followed protocol and did a quick walk-through of the house. Adam checked out the upstairs, and Virge took the basement.

While he was wandering through empty bedrooms wondering where he and Virge should stop for coffee, he heard a yell. Virge didn’t get excited by much, so the yell sent him pounding down the stairs, through the main floor and down to the basement.

“Well, well, lookie here,” he said as Virge walked among rows and rows of constructed wooden planters sporting thousands of leafy green plants. “We’ve got ourselves a grow op.”

* * *

SERENA REALLY LIKED it when her speaking engagements were in Seattle. Oh, she’d travel wherever the work took her, but it was so nice to drive to the conference center or a big hotel, give a workshop or luncheon address or whatever was asked of her and head home to her own bed. The Pacific Northwest Executives Association was today’s client and they’d booked her for most of the day. They’d hired her to present a breakfast address called “Reaching for Success” and later a workshop on inspiring optimal performance from employees.

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