Page 4 of Sin Bin

“What was that, Miss Mackenzie?” Mr. Collins stares me down, and it’s so fierce, so intimidating, that I have to physically push back my shoulders to avoid withering like a dejectedwallflower.

Right. Must be on goodbehavior.

Suddenly I’m not so sure that this trial run idea was agoodone.

“Walter, I’m glad that Gwen convinced me to come on board with Golden Lights Media,” Andre says, breaking the uncomfortable moment in a rare show of . . . well, hell, I don’t think it’s compassion. Andre doesn’t do compassion—for anyone. “After the work I’ve seen your firm do for Duke Harrison, I’m positive that you’ll have the media thinking that I’ve turned a new leaf innotime.”

Call me cynical, but I doubt Andre has turned over anything, leaves or otherwise. I’ve followed mentions of him in the media closely this last year, closely enough to know that he’spanicking.

Not on the ice. The big, bad Andre Beaumont is as fast and dangerous in the ice rink as he was on the day that the Detroit Red Wings drafted him from Northwestern University. But outside the rink? That’s another story. The tabloids love to dish the dirt on his love life, which generally involves leggy supermodels followed by mentions of littleol’me.

Will Andre Beaumont Finally Move on from Moaning Zoe? Only TimeWillTell!

Or, another recent favorite of mine:A Trusted Source Has Told Us that Moaning Zoe Has Moved to Boston to be with Hockey Superstar Andre Beaumont. Will the Couple Finally Shed Their Dirty Laundry and ComeClean?

You’d think that after nearly a year, the media frenzy over a security camera catching us doing the naughty in the Red Wings’ laundry room would have died down. Alas, each new girl that lands in Andre’s muscular embrace only adds more fuel to thegossiprags.

I like to think of it as DivineJustice.

Only, I’d prefer not to have my name dragged through the mud in the same dirtyswipe.

Retreating to his desk again, Mr. Collins takes a seat. “We’re pleased to have you, Mr. Beaumont.” He shifts stacks of papers to the side, and then pulls out a thick binder. “Yours is the exact type of case that we enjoytakingon.”

Andre’s thumbs go to the belt loops of his jeans, and his rugged features tighten. “An easy case, I hope?” he asks. Damn him, but his voice still hasn’t lost its sexy appeal—gritty, raspy. I once asked him if he smoked cigarettes, but he denied itvehemently.

“My body is a temple,” and all that jazz,hesaid.

He’s right—his bodyisa temple. A temple he chooses to share with any Jane, Kathy, and Sally who comeshisway.

Not, of course, that I paythatclose attention to thetabloids.

Walter’s hand visibly pauses in the midst of flipping open the binder—a binder that I can only conclude holds all of Andre’s deepest and darkest secrets. Walter looks to his assistant, the redhead, who visibly blanches and then launches into a flurry ofmotion.

“Mr.Beaumont—”

“You can call me Andre. The formality is abitmuch.”

“Right, right.” Gwen slides a glance my way, and I arch my brows in a helpless gesture. If she’s looking for help, she’s come to the wrong place. Andre wouldn’t listen to me, even if I hogtied him to Mr. Collins’s office chair and threatenedbodilyharm.

Realizing that I’m no help, Gwen fluffs her red hair like it’s her body armor and then takes a deep breath. “Mr.Beaumont—”

His buttery leather jacket creases along the shoulder as he lifts a hand to stop her. “Andre.”

“Right, Andre.” Another deep breath. “See, the thing is, Andre, you’ve provided us with a very . . . different sort of case than your teammate. For the most part, Mr. Harrison kept to a relatively low profile over the last number of years. As you might imagine, this made my job easier. With you,however. . . ”

“Just tell him, Gwen,” Mr. Collins jumps in with a flick of his wrist. A shiny gold Rolex sparkles under the office lights. “You’re pussy-footing around theissue.”

Gwen mutters something unintelligible beneath her breath. Then, shoulders straightening, she announces, “You scare people,Andre.”

Walter Collins harrumphs hisapproval.

Gwen looks on the verge ofvomiting.

And then the man, who is known for being as impenetrable as finely cut marble,reacts.

His jaw drops open. And I—well, I feel the most ridiculous urge to clap my hands. His powerful shoulders twitch as he sharply glances back at me, and I realize that I’ve released an ill-timed squeak ofdelight.

Oops.

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