flicked her eyes toward the pile of newspapers beside her. “Well, you’re certainly not enhancing it.” She linked her hands together on the table and leaned forward, her expression intense. “Basically, all the reports about you lately have followed the same theme and, like a bunch of rabid wolves, the journos are ganging up on you.”
Quinn frowned. “Brilliant.”
“Unfortunately, they have no reason to treat you kindly. You did nearly run that photographer over a couple of weeks back,” Wren said.
Quinn held up his hands. “That was an accident.” Sort of.
“And you called the press a collective boil on the ass of humanity during that radio interview.”
Well, they were.
Wren continued. “Basically, their theme is that it’s time you grew up and that your—let’s call them exploits—are getting old and, worse, tiresome. That seeing you with a different woman every month is boring and a cliché. Some journalists are taking this a step further, saying, since Kade and Mac have settled and started families, when are you going to do the same? That what was funny and interesting in your early twenties is now just self-indulgent.”
Quinn grimaced. Ouch. Harsh.
Not as harsh as knowing that he’d never be able to have what they had, his own family, but still...
Seriously, Rayne, this again? For the last five years, you’ve known about and accepted your infertility! A family is not what you want, remember? Stop thinking about it and move on!
Kade picked up a paper and Quinn could see that someone, probably Wren, had highlighted some text.
Kade read the damaging words out loud. “Our sources tell us that the deal to buy the Mavericks franchise by Rayne, Kade Webb and Mac McCaskill, and their investor—the conservative billionaire industrialist Warren Bayliss—is about to be finalized. You would think that Rayne would make an effort to keep his nose clean. Maybe his partners should tell him that while he might be a brilliant and successful coach, he is a shocking example to his players and his personal life is a joke.”
Kade and Mac held his gaze and he respected them for not dropping their eyes and looking away.
“Is that something you want to tell me?” he demanded, his voice rough.
Kade exchanged a look with Mac and Mac gestured for Kade to speak. “The last year has been stressful, for all of us. So much has happened—Vernon’s death, our partnership with Bayliss, buying the franchise.”
“Falling in love, becoming fathers,” Wren added.
Kade nodded his agreement. “You generating bad publicity is complicating the situation. We, specifically the Mavericks, need you to clean up your act.”
Quinn tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. He wanted to argue, wanted to rage against the unfair accusations, wanted to shout his denials. Instead, he dropped his head and looked at Cal, who still sat on the arm of the chair looking thoughtful.
“You’ve been very quiet, Red. What do you think?”
Cal bit her bottom lip, her eyes troubled. She dropped her head to the side and released a long sigh. “I know how important buying the franchise is and I’d think that you’d want to do whatever you could to make sure that happens.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Maybe you do need to calm down, Q. Stop the serial dating, watch your mouth, stop dueling with death sports—”
The loud jangle of a cell phone interrupted her sentence and Cal hopped up. “Sorry, that’s mine. It might be the hospital.”
Quinn nodded. Cal bent over to pick up her bag and Quinn blinked as the denim fabric stretched across her perfect, heart-shaped ass. He wiped a hand over his face and swallowed, desperately trying to moisten his mouth. All the blood in his head travelled south to create some action in his pants.
Quinn rubbed the back of his neck. Instead of thinking about Red and her very nice butt, he should be directing his attention to his career. He needed to convince Bayliss he was a necessary and valuable component of the team and not a risk factor. To do that, he had to get the media off his back or, at the very least, get them to focus on something positive about him and his career with the Mavericks. Easy to think; not so easy to do.
As Cal slipped out the glass door onto the smaller deck, he acknowledged that his sudden attraction to Red was a complication that he definitely could do without.
* * *
“Callahan Adam-Carter? Please hold for Mr. Graeme Moore.”
Cal frowned, wondered who Graeme Moore was and looked into the lounge behind her, thinking that the three Mavericks men were incredibly sexy. Fit, ripped, cosmopolitan. And since Quinn was the only one who was still single, she wasn’t surprised that the press’s attention was on him. Breakfast was not breakfast in the city without coffee and the latest gossip about the city’s favorite sons.
Over the years his bright blond hair had deepened to the color of rich toffee, but those eyes—those brilliant, ice-green eyes—were exactly the same, edged by long, dark lashes and strong brows. She wasn’t crazy about his too-long, dirty-blond beard and his shoulder-length hair, but she could understand why the female population of Vancouver liked his appearance. He looked hard and hot and, as always, very, very masculine. With an edge of danger that immediately had female ovaries twitching. After a lifetime of watching women making fools of themselves over him—tongues dropping, walking into poles, stuttering, stammering, offering to have his babies—she understood that he was a grade-A hottie.
When she was wrapped around him earlier she’d felt her heart rate climb and that special spot between her legs throb. Mmm, interesting. After five years of feeling numb, five years without feeling remotely attracted to anyone, her sexuality was finally creeping back. She’d started to notice men again and she supposed that her reaction to Quinn had everything to do with the fact that it had been a very long time since she’d been up close and personal with a hot man. With any man.
It didn’t mean anything. He was Quinn, for God’s sake! Quinn! This was the same guy who had tried to raise frogs in the family bath, who had teased her mercilessly and defended her from school-yard bullies. To her, he wasn’t the youngest but best hockey coach in the NHL, the wild and woolly adrenaline junkie who provided grist for the tabloids, or the ripped bad boy who dated supermodels and publicity-seeking actresses.
He was just Quinn, her closest friend for the best part of twenty years.
Well, eighteen years, to be precise. They hadn’t spoken to each other for six months before her wedding or at any time during her marriage. It was only after Toby’s death that they’d reconnected.
“Mrs. Carter, I’m glad I’ve finally reached you.”
Mrs. Carter? Cal’s stomach contracted and her coffee made its way back up her throat. She swallowed and swallowed again.
“I’ve sent numerous messages to your email address at Carter International, but you have yet to respond,” Moore continued. “I heard you were back in the country so I finally tracked down your cell number.”
Cal shrugged. Her life had stopped the day Toby died and she seldom—okay, never—paid attention to messages sent to that address.
“I’m sorry. Who are you?”
“Toby Carter’s lawyer and I’m calling about his estate.”
“I don’t understand why, since Toby’s estate was settled years ago,” Cal said, frowning.
Moore remained silent for a long time and he eventually spoke again. “I read his will after the funeral, Mrs. Carter. Do you remember that day?”
No, not really. Her memory of Toby’s death and burial was shrouded in a mist she couldn’t—didn’t want to—penetrate.
“I handed you a folder, asked you to read the will again when you felt stronger,” Moore continued