Simply Irresistible Read Free

the age of twenty-four, Hugh was not only younger than John but obviously naive. He was on his way to being the best damn goalie in the NHL, but he had a real bad habit of stopping the puck with his head. In view of his last question, he obviously needed a thicker mask. “Take a look around,” John answered. “The last I heard, Virgil’s worth over six hundred million.”
    “Yeah, well, money can’t buy everything,” the goalie grumbled as he started down the steps. “Are you coming, Wall?” He paused to ask over his shoulder.
    “Nope,” John answered. He sucked an ice cube into his mouth, then tossed the tumbler into a potted fern, showing the same disregard for the Baccarat as he had shown for the scotch. He’d put in an appearance at the party last night, and he’d shown his face today. He’d played his part, but he wasn’t staying. “I’ve got one bitch of a hangover,” he said as he descended the stairs.
    “Where are you going?”
    “My house in Copalis.”
    “Mr. Duffy isn’t going to like it.”
    “Too bad,” was his unconcerned comment as he walked around the side of the three-story brick mansion toward his 1966 Corvette parked in front. A year ago, the convertible had been a present to himself after he’d been traded to the Chinooks and had signed a multimillion-dollar contract with the Seattle hockey team. John loved the classic Corvette. He loved the big engine and all that power. He figured once he got on the freeway, he’d open the Corvette up.
    As he shed his blue blazer, a flash of pink at the top of the wide brick steps caught his attention. He tossed his jacket in the shiny red car and paused to watch a woman in a light pink dress slip through the massive double doors. A beige overnight case banged against the hardwood, and a breeze tossed dozens of dark corkscrew curls about her bare shoulders. She looked like she’d been shrink-wrapped in satin from armpit to midthigh. The large white bow sewn to the top of the bodice did little to hide her centerfold bosom. Her legs were long and tan, and she wore a pair of flimsy strapless high heels on her feet.
    “Hey, mister, wait a minute,” she called to him in a slightly breathless, distinctly southern voice. The heels of her ridiculous shoes made tiny click-click sounds as she bounced down the stairs. Her dress was so tight, she had to descend sideways, and with each hurried step, her breasts strained and swelled against the top of the dress.
    John thought about telling her to stop before she hurt herself. Instead he shifted his weight to one foot, folded his arms, and waited until she came to a halt on the opposite side of his car. “Maybe you shouldn’t run like that,” he advised.
    From beneath perfectly arched brows, pale green eyes stared at him. “Are you one of Virgil’s hockey players?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes and leaning down to pick them up. Several glossy dark curls slid over her tanned shoulder and brushed the tops of her breasts and the white bow.
    “John Kowalsky,” he introduced himself. With her full, kiss-me-daddy lips and tilty eyes, she reminded him of his grandfather’s favorite sex goddess, Rita Hayworth.
    “I need to get out of here. Can you help me?”
    “Sure. Where are you headed?”
    “Anywhere but here,” she answered, and tossed her overnight case and shoes on the floor of his car.
    A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he slid into the Corvette. He hadn’t planned on having company, but having Miss January jump in his car wasn’t such a bad fate. Once she sat in the passenger’s seat, he pulled out of the circular drive. He wondered who she was and why she was in such a hurry.
    “Oh God,” she moaned, and turned to stare at Virgil’s rapidly disappearing house. “I left Sissy there all by herself. She went to get her bouquet of lilac and pink roses and I ran out!”
    “Who’s Sissy?”
    “My friend.”
    “Were you supposed to be in the wedding?” he asked. When