Page 10 of The Owner

I’ve never been unsettled like this.

“I hear you have Maurice Belanger’s hockey gloves in your office,” I say, desperate to get her alone.

“I do,” she says with a warm smile. “My father was ahugeMaurice Belanger fan.”

“He had good taste. I have his signed hockey stick.”

She gasps. “My father would have been so jealous. He would havelovedto have seen that.”

“AndIwould love to see those gloves,” I tell her.

She smiles politely. “You’ll have to stop by my office sometime.”

“How about now?”

Zara starts coughing behind me. “**cough**Coming on too strong**cough cough**.Pull it back**cough**.”

I frown as I turn to her. “Do you need a cough drop?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” she says, clearing her throat.

I turn back to my girl and am struck again by the stunning sight. She really is something special.

“I’d love to show you the gloves,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “This way.”

I follow her down the hall, walking beside her as our entourages remain behind. Zara immediately starts introducing herself to all of them.

“Do you collect a lot of hockey memorabilia?” she asks.

“I do,” I say with a nod. “When I can find something worth remembering.”

“I imagine a famous billionaire like you collects a lot of things,” she says, looking at me with a grin. “Cars, houses, women.”

I stop and take her hand. She looks up at me with a surprised little gasp.

“Women are not to be collected,” I tell her, looking deep into her eyes. “They’re to be treasured and worshipped by their soulmate. Anything else goes against the nature of our existence.”

“And what about you, Mr. VanMorgan? Have you found your soulmate?”

I look at her as my heart fills with a warm desire. It’s radiating out of my chest and surging through my limbs. It feels incredible finally being in my soulmate’s presence, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

“I believe I have.”

She drops her eyes, looking disappointed. “Congratulations. She must be a lucky lady.”

I want to tell her she’s the one, but she pulls her hand from mine and continues walking, her pace quickening. I rush to keep up.

She unlocks her office and shows me in.

It’s beautiful in here with various hockey memorabilia under glass and a gorgeous view of the city at night. There’s a large oak desk in front of the window, the surface neat and tidy, which I appreciate. I like people who are organized and efficient. A messy desk signals neither.

“Here they are,” she says as she walks over to a glass case and flicks a switch, lighting them up.

The gloves were so different back then. They’re worn leather, stitched by hand. Maurice Belanger’s signature is scribbled on the right one in black, the same shape as the autograph on my stick.

But these gloves are not what I came to this office to see. I came to see if she’s feeling an ounce of what I am.

I turn to her, unable to hold back the fire blazing inside. “Come out with me.”

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