Page 360 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Rick

"How could you?" She turns on me.

We’re in the conference room adjoining the office at the Alexandra Palace Rink, which is the home ground for the team.

My sense of right and wrong, honed by my time in the marines, told me the pap made a mistake. Worse, he took a picture of us—of her—without her permission. He infringed on a private moment, on her privacy. Ergo, he needed to be punished. At least, that was my opinion.

Only, Ms. PR-Smooth-Things-Over hadn’t agreed.

She proceeded to smile at him, and he positively preened under her attention.

At which point, I wanted to kick him out of the gym—or, at the very least, kick him somewhere else—but she must have sensed my intention, for she turned on me with a livid glower which only served to turn me on.

I excused myself and escaped to the dressing room of the gym, where I’d wanked out one.

By the time I’d showered, dressed and returned, she’d dealt with the journalist. I offered to drop her back home, but she laughed outright at that.

Short of picking her up and throwing her into my car—which I was tempted to do, but which would have only pissed her off even more. Hmmm, maybe I should have—I convinced her to allow me to order her a pick-up. She stomped off as soon as her car arrived, without saying a word to me.

I contemplated texting her an apology but decided against it. It's not as if I'm actually sorry. If we're going to work together, she has to get used to who I am. I'm not changing myself for anyone—least of all, a strawberry blonde with a waist so slim I could span it with my palm.

Meeting again this morning, she still hasn’t calmed down.

"You're lucky the journalist backed down, once I told him we were compensating him not only for the loss of his equipment, but also for the inconvenience,” she fumes.

"I should have smashed his face for trespassing and for daring to click a photo without permission," I say mildly.

She huffs, "Is that your answer to everything? Just break things?"

If I let you, you’d break my heart, but I’m never going to let that happen. I stiffen. A-n-d where did that thought come from, hmm? Affairs of the heart and I don’t go together. I prefer to live my life uncomplicated by love and any of the messy accompanying emotions.

"You’re not even paying attention to what I’m saying.

" She tosses her head. The morning light slants in through the window and bounces off the copper nestled between the light strands of blonde hair. There she is. The temper I often see flashing in her eyes matches those hidden strawberry colors. She’s not the calm, collected blonde she tries to portray.

She’s closer to the warmer, honeyed tones that she does her best to conceal.

"Rick, I’m talking to you." Golden sparks flare in her eyes. It’s a startling combination with the strawberry-blonde of her hair.

It’s what caught my attention first and made me wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t wank off in the shower to images of her naked and on her knees with her mouth open and ready to receive my cum.

My dick lengthens, and thank fuck, I’m wearing my jeans this morning.

If I were wearing my sweatpants, nothing would have stopped the fabric at the crotch from tenting.

As it is, I widen the gap between my legs to accommodate the action taking place there, then slide down a little in my seat, for good measure.

"Can you say something, instead of looking like you’d rather be anywhere else?” she snaps.

Clearly, my acting skills have gotten an upgrade if I managed to convince her I have no interest in being around her.

The only thing that interests me is the twitch in her gorgeous backside encased in that snug little skirt she’s wearing.

It’s black—again—but the way it clings to her butt as she paces about…

Not to mention, the shapely turn of her ankles in those stockings with her feet balanced on another of those sexy-as-fuck, six-inch heels designed to give me a heart attack with thoughts of her naked and panting, long legs wrapped around my waist. She straightens and folds her arms under her breasts, which, unfortunately—or fortunately—means her tits are pushed out and straining against the prim jacket she has buttoned up over that frothy something she has on underneath.

"My face is up here, asshole," she growls.

"Eh?" I blink, then have the grace to redden. I manage to tear my gaze away from her breasts and train it on Priest, who’s been watching our back and forth with a smirk. "What?" I scowl at him.

"We’re lucky I identified the remaining players we need for the team from earlier playoffs. The team is ready to start training together. It means, you two have very little time to sort through your differences," he offers in a mild tone.

She tosses her hair over her shoulder. "I have no differences with him."

"I have no differences with her," I say at the same time.

I arch an eyebrow in her direction. "You’re the one raging around the room like a bull."

"Did you call me a bull?" she snaps.

"I could have said the feminine version of it"—I shuffle my feet—"but it would not have been very complimentary."

Color flushes her cheeks. "Did you refer to me as a cow?"

"I didn’t; you did."

"You alluded to it."

I set my jaw. "I did no such thing."

She firms her lips. "Sure you did."

"If you recall what I said, it was something to the effect that you were snorting and pacing about like a—"

"—Don’t say it," she warns.

"—you know what," I murmur.

"See—" She turns to Edward. "He called me a cow again."

"I did not."

"You implied it."

"All I was trying to say is you were rolling your eyes like a—"

"Enough!" Priest slaps his open palm onto the table. There’s no force behind the move but it’s enough to bounce the pad of paper and pen in front of him.

She firms her lips.

I scowl. Jesus, did I come close to losing my temper?

Me, the man who’s calm enough under pressure to have earned the call sign Stone on the field?

The man who guided his team through more than fifty missions without losing a single man, until that last time.

And even then, I brought them all back home, even though some of them were in body bags.

"Who Dares Wins," is the motto of the Special Forces I was recruited into after I became a Royal Marine. I swore to look challenges in the face and always stay faithful. To my country, to my fellow marines, to my team. It’s the spirit that guided me through the missions. The same promise I intend to lead with as Captain of the hockey team. I allowed my emotions to get the better of me in accepting the role. But now that I have, nothing is going to stop me from winning the League. Certainly not the distraction posed by the sprite of a woman who’s glowering at me from across the table.

"I’m sorry." I turn to Priest. "It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have engaged in that childish exchange."

"Now you’re calling me a child?" she begins, and I hold up my hand.

“I meant, I shouldn’t have argued with you because I was in the wrong."

She blinks. "You were?"

I nod. "I lost my temper with the journalist. No matter that he’s a scum of the earth, I shouldn’t have threatened him or broken his camera—"

"—you think?" she says in a scornful tone.

"I don’t regret it, though."

She stares at me, then a reluctant smile tugs at her lips. "You’re one obstinate asshole, aren’t you?"

I tip my chin. "It’s what’s brought me this far in life."

She gives me a strange look, then turns to Priest. "There was no damage done… this time, but—" Her phone vibrates. As do mine and Priest’s, at the same time.

Priest is the first to reach for his. He glances at the screen, then holds the device up. "Maybe it’s too early to conclude that?"