Page 50 of Break the Ice

In the beginning, it didn’t even matter that Mr. Hawk was majority owner or that he was technically Mr. Beringer’s boss. They became known as a legendary duo in the NHL world because of their long-standing friendship.

“How did things sour so quickly?” I ask myself, clicking through the fifth article I’ve read on their partnership.

There’s so much about the night of Mr. Hawk’s death that I still haven’t processed. The shock of it all must’ve caused me to black out. I strain my memory to recall any details.

The last thing I remembered was sitting on his sofa and sipping from the whiskey he’d given me. He’d mentioned getting to know me better as my stomach roiled and turned down the lights.

Then a chunk of time disappeared from my night. I found myself alone with his dead, bloodied body seconds before Rafe turned up.

I wasn’t hurt. I had no signs of physical injury or sexual assault. But somebody had struck Mr. Hawk over the head with the whiskey bottle so hard it shattered into pieces. Is it possible some part of my subconscious has hidden the truth from myself? Did I strike Mr. Hawk over the head and kill him?

No.

You wouldn’t be so foolish. You’d never put yourself in that situation again.

But what other possibility is there? Other than the potentially gutting truth that Rafe killed Mr. Hawk. Rafe’s using my poor memory to make me think I’m responsible so he can blackmail me and carry out our arrangement.

Would he be so cruel and demented to do such a thing?

It seems despicable, even for him…

I forget about my laptop for a second. My phone’s vibrated to alert me of a new text. I only glance at the screen before I’m changing my mind. I recognize the dummy number that’s popped up. Another text warning me about my secret.

the wolves smell blood. they’re not gonna stop til they go in for the kill. you’ll never get away with this…

I sigh and screenshot the text but otherwise don’t bother replying. This number has made a habit of sending these kind of messages the past few days. I’m caught between analyzing who could be sending them and being certain it’s Rafe.

As if aware he’s on my mind, my phone’s pinged again. He’s texted me for real, using his known number.

Look out your window. Be downstairs in 5 minutes.

My breath runs short peeking out of my floor-to-ceiling windows and seeing the black town car parked against the curb. He doesn’t need to explicitly announce where this is headed—round two is about to begin.

An internal struggle continues. Ongoing for several days now. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how I’d sucked Rafe’s big dick and felt myself go slick as I did. I replay moments like the night he’d snuck into my hotel room and snatched my towel away and the afternoon in the garden at Gourmande.

Moments that are so wrong but felt so damn good at the same time.

Can I continue playing this game with Rafe? Can I even trust him to stick to his word or should I keep exploring my options?

So much remains unknown about Mr. Hawk and his death that could change everything.

Or… I can always use Rafe to my benefit. It’s an option I’ve kept as a backup should I ever need it. Recent weeks have made it clear he’s as attracted to me as I am to him. He’s found a way to blackmail me into playing his game and there’s no denying he’s become more obsessive.

Mom’s always said not all male attention is good attention. Worse when you don’t know what to do with the attention.

The latter part has made me think—I’ve got Rafe’s attention, but have I decided how I’ll take advantage of it?

I quickly throw something on in the five minutes I have. A slinky lingerie type dress that no one usually sees me in. The fabric’s so thin my nipples will show the second I take off my coat.

A smile comes to my face. It’s about time I play a little dirty.

The five minutes are up. I rush outside to meet the driver waiting for me with the rear passenger door open. He doesn’t answer my questions when I ask him where we’re off to, and I’m forced to peer outside the window trying to figure it out.

We drive away from downtown toward Madison Park. Within a few minutes, we’re pulling up outside a condo that screams bachelor pad. Located right on the marina, it’s only a few blocks away from the local bars.

The driver walks me up to the door. He remains dutifully at my side until Rafe finally answers.

I find myself breathless—his amber eyes pin me, and I’m caught up in how good he looks. A spark of mischief lives in his gaze and then spreads to his lips. The same warm lips that have kissed me with hungry passion.