Page 19 of Power Play

I need that interview. Name your price.

Chapter Six

“Thisiswhere we’re discussing terms?”

I hiss the words at Duke’s broad back as I follow him down a dark, dank hallway. I’ve lived in Cambridge for my entire life, and yet have never known this place even existed.

“Dive bar” doesn’t even begin to adequately describe the state of The Box, a name I’m presuming derives from the “penalty box” in hockey. I could easily be wrong; perhaps it’s referring to the almost cage-like, prison-y vibe this hallway is giving off. I’d say that it’s a cross between traditional English pub and local neighborhood bar, but honestly? That would be giving this place way too much credit.

Then my mouth nearly drops open when we pass a life-size wax figure of Bobby Orr, the best hockey player to ever exist, as well as a hometown hero here in Boston. Naturally, I have to touch it.

“Charlie, hands to yourself,” Duke grumbles ahead of me. He must have eyes in the back of his sexy head. How else would he know that my fingers are mere inches away from landing on Bobby Orr’s wax nose?

I skip ahead a step to catch up. “Seriously,” I say, infusing as much authority as I can into my voice, “We could have discussed everything over the phone. When I said ‘name your price,’ I didn’t mean that you had the right to kill me. This place looks like something straight out of theInvestigation Discovery Channel.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” He says this with a shake of his golden head, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

“Obviously not. If you did, your career would be over. Not even The Mountain can escape—”

My voice cuts off as my gaze lands on another figure, and this one looks incredibly familiar. Golden hair. Robin’s egg blue eyes. Thin scar. Sharp jawline.

My eyes widen when realization strikes.

Holy. Cow.

“Duke,” I say, “Do you seriously have your own wax figure?”

This time when I reach out, my fingers hit cold hardness. As expected of a wax figure, not real flesh.

What’s notexpected is the way Duke’s fingers snag my wrist and pull my hand away from his likeness. “I said, don’t touch.”

His mouth is frowning, handsomely sullen. I’m struck with the sudden urge to run my fingers acrosshisface, just to see if he is as warm as the wax figure’s face is cold. But there’s something more to it, too; I’m practically itching to discover more about this elusive man, a man who lives in the spotlight but who, aside from his rarely touched Twitter page, hasn’t left much of a personal imprint on the Internet. In today’s day and age, such a feat is so incredibly rare it might as well be extinct.

Slowly, I become aware of our closeness in the dimly lit hallway, and my breath catches. Shadows dance across the masculine planes of his face, hollowing out his cheeks and slashing across his full, unsmiling mouth. He doesn’t release my hand, at least not right away. Instead, his thumb swipes down, over the heart of my pulse. It’s barely a caress, but it feels . . . telling.

Of what’s to come.

Don’t be an idiot, Charlie.

Right. Nothing is happening between Duke and I, even if his blue eyes do appear warmer in the dark. And even if his thumb has now started a soft back-and-forth motion across the width of my wrist that has my knees wobbling with desire.

I mentally pull myself together with the reminder that if I do not make this interview, my butt is toast. Giving a little tug of my hand, his fingers fall away as though they were never there in the first place.

Cradling my hand to my chest, as though he’s done irreparable damage to it, I murmur, “You didn’t answer my question.”

The groan he gives me is low and sexy. “You ask too many questions.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault. We’re standing next to your ownwax figureand you don’t think that’s weird.”

“I’ve walked past it hundreds of times.”

“Okay, well, why is it here?”

“The owner is a hockey fan. You’ll see.”

Turning on his heel, he continues down the same dark path that seems to stretch on for forever. In reality, we walk for perhaps another ten seconds before he raps his knuckles on a wooden door and swings it open.

I blink.

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