"What are you going to wear to work your first day?"

Chelsea thought of the man who'd insulted her intelligence and her clothes. "I have a Gaultier tunic that I wear with a belt and skinny jeans." If Mark didn't like Pucci, he was going to hate her feather-print Gaultier.

"Take it easy on the poor guy, Chels," Bo said through a big yawn. "He's only been out of the rehab hospital for a month. I don't know if his body can take the shock."

Light from the sixty-inch television screen bounced and shifted across Mark's bare chest. His right hand squeezed a stress ball as he watched highlights from last night's game. He sat on a leather sofa in his master bedroom, a black outline in the darkness. The sports coverage changed from the Stanley Cup highlights to that morning's interview inside the Key. He watched himself and wondered how he could look so normal, sound so normal. The accident that had broken his bones had ripped out his soul. He was empty inside, and into the void had leaked a black rage. It was something he couldn't get over. Had never tried to get over. Without his anger he was hollow.

With his free hand, he lifted the remote and pointed at the TV. His thumb slid across the up arrow and he skimmed past reality shows and cable reruns. He paused on a p.o.r.no on Cinemax. On the screen, two women went at it like cats, cleaning each other with their tongues. They had nice t.i.ts, shaved coochies, and stripper heels. Normally, it was the sort of high-cla.s.s entertainment he would have enjoyed. One of the women stuck her face be-tween the other's legs, and Mark watched for a few moments...waiting.

Nothing lifted his boxer briefs and he hit the off b.u.t.ton, plunging the room into darkness. He tossed the gel-filled ball on the couch beside him and pushed himself off the couch. He hadn't had a decent erection since before the accident, he thought as he walked across the room to his bed. It was probably the drugs. Or perhaps his d.i.c.k just didn't work anymore. Surprising that it didn't bother him as much as it should.

Given his s.e.x life before, not getting it up should freak him out. He'd always been able to get it up. Day or night, didn't matter. He'd always been ready to go. It had never taken much to get him in the mood. Now, not even hot lesbian p.o.r.n interested him.

Mark shoved back the thick covers on his bed and crawled inside. He was just a sh.e.l.l of the man he'd been. So pathetic that he might have reached for the bottle of pills sitting on his nightstand and put an end to it all if that hadn't been even more pathetic. If that wasn't the chickens.h.i.t way out.

Mark had never taken the chickens.h.i.t way out of anything. He hated weakness, which was one of the reasons he hated having those home health care workers around, taking his pulse and checking his medication.

Within a few minutes, his Ambien kicked in and he slipped into a deep, restful sleep and dreamed the only dream he'd ever had for himself. He heard the roar of the crowd clashing with the slap of graphite sticks on ice and the shh of razor-sharp blades. The smells of the arena filled his nose, sweat and leather, crisp ice, and the occasional waft of hot dogs and beer. He could taste adrenaline and exhaustion in his mouth as his heart and legs pounded down the ice, puck in the curve of his stick. He could feel the cold breeze brush his cheeks, steal down the neck of his jersey, and cool the sweat on his chest. Thousands of pairs of eyes, locked on him; he felt their antic.i.p.ation, could see the excitement in the blur of their faces as he skated past.

In his dreams, he was back. He was whole again. He was a man. His movements were fluid and easy and without pain. Some nights he dreamed that he played golf or threw the Frisbee for his old dog, Babe. Babe had been dead for five years, but it didn't matter. In the dream both of them were filled with life.

But in the harsh light of morning, he always woke to the crushing reality that the life he'd always known was over. Altered. Changed. And he always woke in pain, his muscles stiff and his bones aching.

Morning sun filtered through the crack in the drapery and stretched a pillar of light across the foot of Mark's king-sized bed. He opened his eyes, and the first wave of pain rolled over him. He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. It was eight-twenty-five A.M. He'd slept a good nine hours, but he didn't feel rested. His hip throbbed and the muscles in his leg tightened. He slowly raised himself, refusing to moan or groan as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He had to move before his muscles spasmed, but he couldn't move too fast or his muscles would knot. He reached for the bottle of Vicodin on the bedside table and downed a few. Carefully he rose and grabbed an aluminum quad cane by his bed. Most days he felt like a crippled old man, but never more so than in the mornings before he warmed up his muscles.

Steady and slow, he walked across the thick beige carpet and moved into the bathroom. The aluminum cane thumped across the smooth marble floors. For most of his adult life, he'd awakened in some degree of pain. Usually from hard hits he'd received in a game the night before or from related sports injuries. He was used to working through it. Pain had always been a part of his adult life, but nothing on the scale he suffered now. Now he needed more than Motrin to get him through the day.

The radiant heat beneath the stone warmed his bare feet as he stood in front of the toilet and took a leak. He had an appointment with his hand doctor this morning. Normally he hated all the endless doctor's appointments. Most of his time at the clinic was spent sitting around waiting, and Mark had never been a patient man. But today he hoped to get the good news that he no longer needed to wear the splint on his hand. It might not be much, but it was progress.

He pushed hair from his eyes, then flushed the toilet. He needed to make an appointment to get his hair cut too. He'd had it cut once in the hospital, and it was bugging the h.e.l.l out of him. The fact that he couldn't just jump into his car and drive to the barber ticked him off and reminded him how dependent he was on other people.

He shoved his boxer briefs down his legs, past the dark pink scar marring his left thigh and knee. Of all the things that he missed about his old life, driving was near the top of the list. He hated not being able to jump into one of his cars and take off. He'd been in one hospital or another for five months. He'd been home now for a little more than one month, and he felt trapped.

Leaving the cane by the toilet, he placed his good hand on the wall and moved to the walk-in shower. He turned on the water and waited for it to get warm before he stepped inside. After months of hospital sponge baths, he loved standing in the shower on his own two feet.

Except for the injury to his right hand and a fracture to his right tibia, most of the crushing damage had been done to the left side of his body. His ability to drive was one thing the doctors a.s.sured him he would get back. He looked forward to the day when he didn't have to rely on anyone for anything.

The hot water sprayed across his chest, and he stuck his head beneath the powerful stream. He was fairly sure he'd gotten rid of the health care worker with the two-toned hair and the Pucci.

Water slid into the crease of his smile as he remembered her scandalized gasp. The way she'd said "Pucci," he'd figured it had to be some high-priced designer. She'd said it like his former wife had said, "It's Chanel." He didn't care how much something cost. He knew ugly when he saw it.

He washed his hair and soaped up his body, then reached for the detachable showerhead and turned it to ma.s.sage. He held it against his hip and left thigh and let the hot water beat the h.e.l.l out of his muscles. It hurt like a son of a b.i.t.c.h but gave him relief from the sharpest pain. When he was finished, he dried himself and brushed his teeth. A day's growth of beard darkened his cheeks and jaw. Instead of shaving, he moved into the huge walk-in closet and dressed in a pair of blue nylon jogging pants and a plain white T-shirt. He shoved his feet into black Nike flip-flops because tying shoes was a ha.s.sle. Yesterday morning before the news conference, it had taken him forever to b.u.t.ton his shirt and tie his shoes. Well, maybe not forever, but things that he used to do by rote now took thought and effort.

He placed the splint on his right hand and tightened the Velcro before he grabbed his black t.i.tanium cane from the couch where he'd been sitting last night.

The original homeowners had a servants' elevator built inside a large closet down the hall. With the aid of his cane, Mark walked out of the bedroom and past the spiral stairs he used to take two at a time. He glanced over the ornate wrought-iron and wood railing as he moved across the landing. Sunlight poured in through the heavily leaded gla.s.s in the entry, tossing murky patterns on the marble floor below. He opened the closet door and rode the small elevator down. It opened into the kitchen, and he stepped out. He poured himself a bowl of Wheaties and ate at the kitchen table because he needed something in his stomach or the medication he took would make him nauseous.

For as long as he could remember he'd eaten the Breakfast of Champions. Probably because it's what his father could afford to feed him. Sometimes he couldn't remember what he did last week, but he could recall sitting at his gran's old kitchen table, a white sugar bowl in the center of the yellow tablecloth, eating Wheaties before school. He remembered perfectly the morn-ing in 1980 when his grandmother had set the orange box on the table and he'd stared at the Olympic hockey team on the front. His heart had stopped. His throat closed as he'd looked at Dave Silk, Neil Broten, and the guys. He'd been eight and they'd been his heroes. His grandmother had told him he could grow up and be anything he wanted. He'd believed her. There hadn't been a lot he'd believed in, but he believed het he be his grandmother Bressler. She never lied to him. Still didn't. Not even when it would be easier. When he'd woken from his coma a month after the accident, hers was the first face he'd seen. She'd stood next to his father by the foot of his bed and she'd told him about the accident. She'd listed all his injuries for him, starting with his skull fracture and ending with the break in his big toe. What she hadn't mentioned was that he'd never play hockey again, but she hadn't had to. He'd known by the list of his injuries and the look in his father's eyes.

Of the two adults in his life, his grandmother had always been the strong one. The one to make things better, but that day in the hospital, she'd looked exhausted and worn thin. After she'd listed all his injuries, she'd told him that he could still be anything he wanted. But unlike that morning thirty years ago, he no longer believed her. He'd never play hockey again, and they both knew that was the only thing he wanted.

He rinsed his bowl as the heavy chimes of the front doorbell sounded. He hadn't called for a driver yet, and could think of only one other person who'd show up at such an early hour.

He reached for his cane and walked out of the kitchen and through the hall. Before he reached the front of the house, he could see a kaleidoscope of color through the muted gla.s.s. He balanced on his feet and pulled open the door with his good hand. The health care worker stood on his porch wearing her big sun-gla.s.ses and yellow and red hair. Her piece-of-s.h.i.t Honda was parked in the driveway behind her. "You're back."

She grinned. "Good morning, Mr. Bressler."

She looked like she was covered in painted feathers. Like a peac.o.c.k. A pea-c.o.c.k with large b.r.e.a.s.t.s. How had he missed those? Maybe the pain he'd been in. Most likely the ugly orange jacket.

"You like the shirt?"

He raised his gaze to hers. "You wore it just to irritate me."

Her grin widened. "Now why would I want to irritate you?"

THREE.

Chelsea pushed her sungla.s.ses to the top of her head and looked way up at the man standing in the entryway's natural light. His damp hair was brushed back. It curled around his ears and along the neckline of his bright white shirt. He scowled at her from beneath dark brows; the annoyance shining in his brown eyes made his feelings for her clear. He hadn't shaved, and a dark shad-ow covered his cheeks and strong prominent jaw. He looked big and bad and dominant. All dark and foreboding, and she might have been a little intimidat-ed if he hadn't had the longest lashes she'd ever seen on a man. Those lashes were so out of place on his chiseled masculine face that she smiled.

"Are you going to invite me inside?" she asked.

"Are you going to go away if I don't?"

"No."

He gave her a hard look for several long seconds before he turned and walked across the stone flooring. As she'd noticed yesterday, he moved slower than men of his age. His cane was a smooth extension of his left hand. What she hadn't noticed was that he used the cane on his left side, the wrong side. She might not have noticed at all if not for the big brouhaha about Gregory House using his cane on the wrong side in the television medical drama House. The writers of House had made a mistake, but she supposed Mark Bressler used the wrong side because he wore some sort of splint made of alu-minum and blue Velcro on his right hand.

"There's nothing for you to do today," he said over his shoulder. "Go home."

"I have your schedule." She closed the front door behind her, and the three-inch heels of her sandals echoed on the marble floor as she followed him into a large office filled with hockey memorabilia. "You have an appointment with your orthopedic doctor this morning at ten-thirty and an interview with Sports Ill.u.s.trated at one o'clock at the Spitfire."

He leaned his black cane against the edge of a ma.s.sive mahogany desk and turned to face her. "I'm not doing the Sports Ill.u.s.trated interview today."

Chelsea had worked with a lot of difficult employers. It was her job to get them where they needed to be, even when they didn't want to be there. "It's been rescheduled twice."

"It can be rescheduled a third time."

"Why?"

He looked her in the eyes and said, "I need a haircut." Either he was a bad liar or he just didn't care if she knew he was lying.

She pulled her phone out of her handbag. "Do you have a preference?"

"For what? A haircut?" He shrugged and lowered himself into a big leather chair.

Chelsea dialed her sister's number, and when Bo answered she said, "I need the name of a good hair salon or barber."

"Gee, I don't know," her sister answered. "Hold on. I'll ask Jules. He's standing right here." Chelsea walked to the window and pushed aside the heavy drapery to look out. The fight she'd had with her sister the night before still bothered her. If the one person in the world she loved and trusted above all others thought she was a loser...was she?

Bo got back on the line with the name and number of a salon in Belltown. Chelsea hung up, then dialed. "Let's keep our fingers crossed," she said as she turned back to the room.

"You're wasting your time," Mark grumbled as he opened a drawer in the desk. "I'm not doing the interview today."

Chelsea held up one finger as the salon picked up. "John Louis Salon. This is Isis."

"h.e.l.lo, Isis. My name is Chelsea Ross and I work for Mark Bressler. He has an important interview and photo shoot with Sports Ill.u.s.trated this after-noon at one o'clock. Is there any way you can get him in for a cut and blow?"

"Cut and blow? Jesus," the grump behind the desk continued to grumble.

"I'll see what I can do," Isis a.s.sured her in a tone usually used by uppity receptionists in snooty salons.

"We'll be grateful if-" The b.i.t.c.h put her on hold.

"Even if I get my hair cut, I'm still not doing the interview."

Chelsea moved the phone away from her mouth. "What's your next objection?"

"I'm not dressed for it," he said, but she knew that was a lie too. She hadn't a clue why he didn't want to do the interview, but she doubted it had anything to do with the way he looked. Which, even she had to admit, was absolutely gorgeous in a casual, scruffy way that only truly good-looking men could get away with. Too bad he was such a jerk.

"Well, since it's just an interview and not a photo shoot, I don't think it matters."

"You said photo shoot."

"Yeah, I may have prevaricated."

"You lied."

Isis came back on the line, and Chelsea returned the phone to her mouth. "Yes."

"We have a two o'clock opening."

"I need to have him cut and blown and on his way out the door by twelve-forty-five."

"Well, I don't think we can help you."

"Let me talk to your manager because I'm fairly sure he or she will want to take credit for making the captain of the Chinooks' hockey team look good in a magazine that is read by millions worldwide." She looked across the room at a big poster of Mark all geared up and shooting a puck. "Or I can just as easily chose another salon if you-" She pulled the phone away from her face and stared at it. "b.i.t.c.h did it again," she muttered, and moved to the framed poster. Mark didn't look all that different in the poster than he did today. Maybe a little meaner. His brown eyes a little more intense as he stared out from beneath the black helmet on his head. She studied his eyes and then glanced over her shoulder to study him. "What are you doing?" she asked as she watched him pick up the phone on his desk.

"Calling the service to send a car."

"There's no need. It's my job to get you to your appointments. I'll drive you."

"In what?"

"My car."

He pointed the phone at the front of the house. "That piece of s.h.i.t in my driveway?"

She held up her finger once more as Isis came back on the line.

"We can get Mr. Bressler in at noon."

"Fabulous. What's the address?" She moved to the desk and wrote on a sticky note before flipping her phone closed and dropping it in her bag. "You don't like the Honda, fine. What wheels do you have in your garage?"

He set the phone back in the cradle. "You want to drive my vehicle?"

It wasn't unheard of. She'd driven her former employers around in their cars all the time. The more D list, the more they'd wanted to appear as if they had drivers. "Sure."

"You're f.u.c.king nuts if you think I'm going to let you drive my car. I saw the dents in your Honda."

"Minor parking lot dings," she a.s.sured him. "Isn't your car insured?"

"Of course." He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his wide chest.

"And wouldn't it be more convenient for you to have me chauffeur you than waiting around on a car service all the time?"

He didn't say anything, just scowled.

She looked at her watch. "It's after ten now. You don't have time to wait for a service to pick you up."

"I can be late," he said with the confidence of a man who was used to the world waiting on him.

"I'm offering you an opportunity to make your life easier, and you're being obstinate and unreasonable for no logical reason. Unless you like to depend on a car service."

"What's the difference between depending on a service and depending on you? Other than you're more annoying."

She held up three fingers and counted down. "I'm cute, you don't have to tip me, and I'm already here."

He stared at her for several long moments, then slowly stood and reached for his cane. "You're not that cute. If you 'ding' my car, I'll kill you."

She smiled and followed him out of the room. Her gaze landed on his wide shoulders and followed his tapered back to his waist. A wallet bulged the pocket of his dark nylon running pants. There were some men who wore sweats and looked like goof-b.a.l.l.s. Then there were men like Mark who made them look good, with his long legs and tight behind. He might have had a seri-ous accident six months ago, but his body was still hard from a lifetime of ex-ercise. "Don't you get a little lonely living in this big house by yourself?" she asked to fill the silence.

"No." The way he walked, his cane, and the splint on his hand contrasted with his dominant aura. A clash of strength and vulnerability that was appealing. And which he totally ruined with his rude, abrasive personality. "Until recently, I've rarely been here," he added. "For the last few years, I've been meaning to put it on the market. You interested?"

"Sure. What's your asking price?" She couldn't afford the lawn care.

"At least what I paid for it." They moved through the gigantic kitchen with its intricate stone and tile work and professional-grade appliances. She followed him past the pantry and laundry room, and above a built-in mud bench next to the back door, two sets of keys hung from hooks. One set had a Mercedes emblem, the other unmistakably the keys to a Hummer. "I'm probably going to regret this," he muttered as he grabbed the Mercedes keys with the thumb and forefinger of his bad hand.

Chelsea slid around him and opened the back door, holding it for him as he carefully stepped down. A shiny gold Mercedes S550 sedan sat in the middle of his five-car garage. The lights blinked, the locks deactivated by the key fob. One of her previous employers had driven a S550. Only older. This one was brand-spanking-new. She shut the door behind them. "Ooh. Come to Mama."

"You're going to drive careful. Right?" He turned, and she almost ran into his chest.

"Right." A hand's width separated her Gaultier from plain white cotton, and she ran her gaze up his T-shirt, over his throat and stubbly chin, to his mouth.