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which had devoted five chapters to him, complete with pictures. About half of what the author claimed in that book was pure gossip and absolute fabrication. And the only reason Luc hadn’t sued was because he didn’t want the added media attention.
    â€œYour history with the press.” She took a drink of her coffee and shrugged. “The ubiquitous coverage of your problems with drugs and women.”
    Yep, she’d read it. And who the hell used words like ubiquitous ? Reporters, that’s who. “For the record, I’ve never had problems with women. Ubiquitous or otherwise. You should know better than to believe everything you read.”
    At least not anything criminal. And his addiction to painkillers was in the past. Where he intended for it to stay.
    He ran his gaze from her slicked-back hair, across the flawless skin of her face, and down the rest of her wrapped up in that awful coat. Maybe if she loosened up her hair she wouldn’t look like such a tight ass. “I’ve read your column in the paper,” he said and glanced up into her green eyes. “You’re the single girl who bitches about commitment and can’t find a man.” Her dark brows slashed lower and her gaze turned hard. “Meeting you, I can see your problem.” He’d hit a nerve. Good. Maybe she’d stay away from him.
    â€œAre you still clean and sober?” she asked.
    He figured if he didn’t answer, she’d make up something. They always did. “Absolutely.”
    â€œReally?” Her lowered brows rose in perfect arches as if she didn’t really believe him.
    He took a step closer. “Want me to piss in your cup, sweetheart?” he asked the hard-eyed, uptight, probably-hadn’t-had-sex-in-five-years woman in front of him.
    â€œNo, thanks, I take my coffee black.”
    He might have taken a moment to appreciate her comeback if she wasn’t a reporter and if it didn’t feel as if she were being forced on him, like it or not. “If you change your mind about that, let me know. And don’t think that Duffy shoving you down the guys’ throats is going to make your job easy.”
    â€œMeaning?”
    â€œMeaning whatever you think it means,” he said and walked away.
    He walked the short distance to the parking garage and found his gray Ducati leaning on its stand next to the handicapped slot. The color of the motorcycle perfectly matched the thick clouds hanging over the city and the gloomy garage. He strapped his duffel on the back of the Duke and straddled the black seat. With the heel of his boot, he kicked up the stand and fired the twin-cylinder engine. He didn’t spare Ms. Alcott another thought as he sped from the parking lot, the muffled bark of the engine trailing behind him. He made his way past Tini Bigs bar and up Broad to Second Avenue, and within a few short blocks he pulled into the common garage of his condominium complex and parked the motorcycle next to his Land Cruiser.
    Luc hooked two fingers beneath the cuff of his jacket and glanced at his watch. Grabbing his duffel, he figured he had three more hours of quiet. He thought he might put in a game tape and relax in front of his big-screen television. Maybe call a friend and have her over for lunch. A certain leggy redhead came to mind.
    Luc stepped out of the elevator onto the nineteenth floor and moved down the hall to the northeast corner condo. He’d bought it shortly after his trade to the Chinooks last summer. He wasn’t crazy about the interior—which reminded him of the old cartoon The Jetsons with its chrome and stone and rounded corners—but the view . . . the view kicked ass.
    He opened the door, and his plans for the day collapsed as he tripped over a blue North Face backpack thrown on the beige carpet. A red snowboard coat was tossed on the navy leather sofa, and rings and bracelets were piled in a heap on one of the wrought-iron-and-glass