Teamwork (16 page)

“One foot in front of the other,” he said, “but not a step, a glide.”

“I can’t do it.” My feet were a tangled, stuttering mess beneath me. If he weren’t holding me up I would be a jellified heap on the ground.

“Come on. You’re made of tougher stuff,” he said, speeding up rather than slowing down and heading toward the center of the rink instead of the edge.

The swishing sound of the ice slicing beneath us filled my ears. The chill air swept down my throat. My feet were kind of going in the right direction, but only because he was holding me and guiding me.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re getting the hang of it now.”

“Don’t let me go,” I warned, fully aware of the panic in my voice.

His grip tightened. “I don’t intend to.”

Once again he spun me so we were both facing the same way, then he took off, clockwise and at a scary speed around the edge of the rink.

“I don’t think I like it,” I said, watching the ice speed past my skates. Little chips sprayed to the side with each faltering step-slide I took.

“Hey, you give massages for a living and I tried that on you, even though it’s not my thing. Did I object?”

“No, because you enjoyed it just fine,” I replied, remembering only too well how every time he’d given me a massage he ended up burying himself deep inside me. Not that I was complaining.

“Stand here,” he said, heading over to the net. “Maybe you’re not cut out to be a forward, but let’s see how you cope with Reed’s job.”

“What’s that?” My eyes widened as the goal approached.

“He’s a goalie.”

“Oh, okay.” The thought of having something to hang on to if Raven moved away was very attractive.

“Stay here,” he said, skidding us to a smooth halt. “Hold this.”

I gripped his arm as he passed me a hockey stick.

“Let go of me,” he said with a laugh. “You can stand up just fine.”

“I can’t. Don’t you get it? Just because skating is easier than walking for you, for me it’s like breathing under water. I can’t do it.” Irritation was welling within me. Thoughts of nice normal shoes and a floor surface that wasn’t glacial were becoming increasingly appealing, not to mention necessary.

“Look, just stand still. There’s no need to wobble. Let’s see if you can stop a puck.”

“Raven,” I squealed as he zipped off. Two, three pushes of his legs and he was a quarter way up the rink, tapping a puck in front of his own stick. Frantically I caught my balance, using the stick as if it were a crutch.

“Concentrate,” he called as he spun.

How the hell did he do that?

“Keep your eye on the puck and stop it getting past you. Imagine it’s the Islanders trying to get that final shot. You’ve got to stop them. Everyone is depending upon you. The whole arena.”

With a swift flick of his wrist, the puck shot down the ice toward me.

A small, red, boxlike puck.

Not like a puck at all.

The surface of the box was velvety and soft looking. On the top was a gold clasp. It spun and swirled toward me—silently, softly, swiftly.

My stick was poised, ready to flick it back to him. But as it skidded and slowed, my heart fluttered and my arms froze.

What Raven had just hit toward me was no puck. It was a jewelry box. A very expensive-looking jewelry box.

I caught it in the hook of my stick and, for the first time in several minutes, thoughts of staying upright fled my mind. Luckily that didn’t seem to affect my balance.

“Raven, what…?” I looked up. He was standing in the middle of the rink. Still in the position he’d sent his shot in.

Our gazes connected. He straightened. I was suddenly aware of the hum of the ice, the whirr of the air-conditioning. My breath misting in front of my face.

“Open it,” he called.

“But…?” I looked down. If I moved, even enough to pick the thing up, I was going to land on my ass.

“Fiona?”

“I-I can’t reach it.” The stick braced beneath me was all that was stopping me from toppling over, legs akimbo. Moving was not an option.

A whoosh and a shower of ice and he was next to me, his hand cupping my elbow, instantly taking my weight. “Pumpkin, you okay?”

I nodded. There was a bite of pain in my eyes. Tears were welling. It couldn’t really be what I thought it was.

“Pick it up,” he whispered.

He held me tighter and I stooped. His touch, his hand, was a lifeline. As if in slow motion, I saw my fingers wrap around the velvety box, grip it, lift it.

My stick, his stick, fell to the floor. The clatters echoed up to the high, domed ceiling.

His eyes were dark and his brows were pulled low, shadowing his irises further under the intense spotlights above us. His lips were a tight, anxious line and the center of his cheeks hollowed as he dragged in air. “Please, open it,” he said.

With shaky hands, I flipped the lid.

Nestled in a white silk cushion was a platinum ring. A huge diamond sparkled up at me, its multifaceted sides winking in the icy light. “Raven, I—”

“Shh.”

Still holding me so I didn’t topple, and now it was my weak legs as well as my unstable footing that was about to give, he got down onto one knee.

Suddenly the intensity of my feelings, the surrealness of the moment threatened to overwhelm me. “Raven, what are you doing?”

“Shh.” He captured my gaze with his. “Fiona, I need to get a few things straight.” He paused and swallowed. “One, I’m done sharing you. I want you to be mine and mine alone. It was fun with Todd but that’s it.” He shook his head. “No more. No one else. Ever.”

“I don’t want anyone else. It’s just you.” I glanced back at the huge diamond. “But—”

“Two,” he interrupted. “The thought of you leaving, going back to Wales makes me sick to my stomach. In fact,” he pressed his fist to his chest, “it makes it damn hard to breathe. I want you to stay here, in Orlando. I know you like to be your own boss so maybe set up your own clinic. I’ll finance it. Pay me back or don’t pay me back. It’s up to you. But please, no more talk of going an ocean away from me. I can’t bear it.”

My heart was really thumping now. He didn’t want me to go. He wanted me to stay in Florida. It was what I wanted more than anything. “But, Raven, I can’t. There’s the small problem of visas and my stuff and—”

“And third.” He sucked in a fast, hard breath and blinked rapidly a few times. “Would you consider doing me the very great honor of being my wife?”

“Wife?”

“What do you think that is, a damn friendship ring?” He stood, dragging me close and pressing the tip of his nose to mine.

“Well, no, I—”

“Marry me, please. Be my wife. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. You’ve taken my heart so completely. I want to spend my life with you. Wake up every morning with you and then go to bed every night with you. My god…” He paused and shook his head. “I’ve even been daydreaming what our kids will look like. Two little girls with your red hair and freckles, your smile, your green eyes. And I sure as hell have never done that before. But you’ve made me realize what it is I want when I’m done with hockey. I want you, I want our future together.”

I could actually see the tears resting on my bottom lashes now. All the things he was saying, at one time in my life would have had me running to the hills. Staying in one place, with one man, leaving Wales forever. But now, those words from Raven’s mouth were nectar to my ears. Swelling my heart and wrapping like cashmere around my soul.

He cupped my face with his palm, stroked his thumb over my cheek. “You’re scaring me, Pumpkin, please say something.”

I pulled in a juddering breath. “What is it about you?” With the jewelry box still in my hand, I wrapped my arms around his waist. “That makes it impossible to say no?”

His mouth twitched. “Does that mean it’s a yes?”

“Yes, it’s a yes. Raven, I love you so much. Nothing would make me happier, more complete or more proud than to be your wife.”

He kissed me, such a long, hot, wet kiss I was surprised the entire rink didn’t melt. I clung to him, fed him kiss for kiss and wondered at how the sullen patient who’d teased me so infuriatingly had become my world, my universe, my future. If happiness could be ranked the way hockey teams were, then I was flying high, top of the league, the trophy was mine and I was never going to let it go.

About Lily Harlem

Lily Harlem is a multi-published, award winning author of contemporary erotic romance. She lives in the UK with her husband and a bunch of animals, all rescued, and loves to spend her days immersed in imagination.

Her books are a mixture of full length novels and short stories, some are one offs, some are sequels or part of a series (all can be enjoyed as stand-alone reads). What they each have in common are colourful characters travelling on everyone’s favourite journey — falling in love. If the story isn’t deliciously romantic and down and dirty sexy, it won’t be written, at least not by Lily. So with the bedroom door left well and truly open you are warned to hang on for a steamy, sensual ride - or rides as the case might be!

Lily welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her
author bio page
at
www.ellorascave.com
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