Off Limits

chapter 3



Emily



Crap! I'm late.

I hate the drive from Manhattan over to Hoboken and there's construction going on at the Lincoln Tunnel that has traffic backed up.

I shouldn't be nervous. I'm only going to see one of Ryan's best buddies, Lincoln Caldwell. He's the goalie for the New York Rangers and he graciously granted an interview to Ryan's little sister. I have to get it completed for one of my elective classes, The Economics of Sports.

I went ahead and officially declared my major in Journalism with an emphasis on Sports Journalism. Now, when I say I "officially declared", that just means I declared it to the university and to myself. There is no way in hell I'm telling my parents until I absolutely have to.

It really helps having a brother that plays professional sports and it would have been super easy to just interview him. But I don't share with many people that I'm related to Ryan Burnham. I want to keep my relationship with my brother private because I'm really enjoying the bond we've developed. And I don't want people trying to be friends with me just because my brother plays in the NHL.

So Ryan suggested I interview Lincoln. They became fast friends when Ryan signed on with the team and are pretty tight. I've met him a few times at some of the players' parties and he's a nice guy. A little bit of a ladies' man, but nothing I can't handle. Plus, he probably knows Ryan will kick his ass if he ever makes a move on me. I don't think Ryan will ever tolerate one of his teammates dating his baby sister. Which is fine by me. I may love all things related to sports but I have no desire to ever date an athlete. With the exception of my wonderful brother, most of them are just too full of themselves.

I mentally calculate my time frames. I'll need only about half an hour of Lincoln's time and that will get me back over to Manhattan in time for dinner. I'm eating at Ryan and Danny's tonight and I am so excited. This will be the first time we've been able to get together since the Fall semester started for me.

Ryan and Danny got married last December in a beautiful but simple Christmas wedding. The only ones in attendance, other than the happy bride and groom, were me, Ryan's best friend, Mike, and Danny's friends, Paula and Sarge from Boston. My parents weren't invited because my father was out of the country but I know my mother would not have come. She's still pouting over Ryan's "abandonment of his family" in favor of "that woman with the purple hair". At this point, I think it's safe to say that my mother has completely written Ryan off and that makes my heart hurt for Ryan and Danny. My father, however, has been talking to Ryan so maybe he can talk some sense into my mother. He’s the only person with any sway over her and really, it’s because my mother adores her husband. Truly.

I find Lincoln's condo easy enough and pull into a parking spot. I pull my visor down and check my face in the mirror. No stray mascara marks and my lip-gloss is still shiny enough.

I pull my phone from my purse and check my texts and emails briefly.

Great! There's another text from Todd.

Em...pls call me. I miss u so much. I luv u. We belong 2gether.

Ever since my mother made me go to that fundraiser with him, he's started his stalker behavior again. He keeps insisting that we belong together. He sounds...frantic. As if his life depends upon hitching me to his hip. Right now, it's just emails and texts, which I have been ignoring. But maybe I need to get tough with him.

I punch out a quick reply.

Stop texting me. We r over.

Short and sweet. Hopefully, he'll get the message. Hopping out of the car, I make my way up to the top floor apartment.

Lincoln, of course, welcomes me in and I'm struck by how beautiful his place is. I expected it to be littered with dirty clothes, beer cans and posters of naked women. Instead, his walls are painted a warm, taupe color and he has stylish, black leather furniture. Tastefully framed art prints grace the wall, and the only ode I can see to the fact that this is a bachelor pad is that he has an XBox 360 hooked up to a massive seventy inch television.

Lincoln Caldwell, goalie for the New York Rangers, is as beautiful as his condo. He’s a favorite subject for the newspapers and sports magazines, probably because his face could be considered a work of art in most museums. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and sexy hair that’s cut into a gazillion layers, perfectly framing his rugged face. He’d be a dream guy to have if it wasn’t for the whole “I don’t date athletes” thing I have going on.

I’m welcomed in and Linc chooses to have us sit in his living room for the interview. As soon as I take a seat, a huge, furry bundle of what I later learn is a dog comes barreling at me. He...she...it...hops the coffee table and crashes into my chest, sending me backward into the plush, couch cushions.

I'm gasping for air and the dog is licking my face from top to bottom. I hear Lincoln yell, "damn dog" and then he pulls the golden mass of muscle and quivering nerves off of me. I can now see it's a beautiful Golden Retriever...a boy, I believe...and he's staring at me with a big, goofy dog grin on his face.

"It's okay. I love dogs," I assure him.

Lincoln cautiously lets go of the dog's collar and I'm rewarded with the big lug—not Lincoln—coming over to lay his head in my lap.

"Sorry about that. Dog has no manners whatsoever."

I give the furry monster a quick scratch behind the ears and I get a well-behaved canine that promptly lays at my feet and goes to sleep.

The next half hour goes by quickly and Lincoln provides me with an engaging interview. Of course, he can't help by finishing it off with an offer to go out to dinner. I politely decline and he gives me a sad, tortured look. I'm sure that works on a lot of women, but not me. Instead, I give him a professional handshake, thanking him for his time. I do, however, lean over and give the dog a big hug and a goodbye scratch.

Walking back to my car, I glance at my watch. I need to hurry if I want to beat rush hour, although it won't be so bad heading into Manhattan as opposed to coming out.

I get in my little BMW 335i—a high school graduation present from my parents—and put my seatbelt on. I check my phone before heading out. Todd sent me three more texts while I was in Lincoln's condo.

U don't mean that. U still need me.

U need to call me. Now!

Why r u ignoring me?

Reading the last text, I feel an icy shiver go up my spine. Todd is sounding a little unhinged and I'm afraid I might find a dead rabbit in my stew pot when I get home. Gosh, Fatal Attraction was an awesomely creepy movie. I hope that it isn't turning into a real life event for me.

Turning the car on, I look in my rear view and side mirrors. Putting the car in reverse, I start to back out. At the same time, my phone rings and I can see on the screen that it's Danny calling. Keeping one hand on the wheel, I grab the phone and answer it, still backing out of my parking spot.

I barely get the words out, "Hi Danny" when I hear a sickening crunch of metal and my car jolts to a stop.

"Shit!" I yell.

"Are you okay?" Danny asks.

"No," I wail. "I just hit something. I'll call you back."

Looking in my rear view mirror, I can't see anything. I throw my phone down and jump out of my car. Rounding the back corner, I am horrified to see a motorcycle lying on the ground with its driver laying a few feet away. I immediately take in that he appears to be okay as he's getting up from the ground.

My heart is thundering in my chest as the crashing realization that I could have just killed a person sinks into me. My legs start to wobble and my head spins.

"F*ck, lady. Don't you watch where you're going?"

I look at the man who is standing up now and looking down at his bike. He takes his helmet off and throws it to the ground in anger.

I vaguely notice that he glares at me but it's like he's in slow motion. He sounds like he's in a tunnel and his voice is getting fainter when he says, "Hey...are you okay?"

His words say he is concerned but I still have barely enough of my wits to discern his tone of voice says he's still very pissed.

I try to answer him but I can't make my voice work. Then I realize my legs are giving way and I see the ground rushing up to meet me. Before I can hit though, the angry man is there, catching me in his arms. I'm vaguely aware that he picks me up and walks over to a grassy area adjacent to the parking lot where he lays me down very gently.

I can feel him put his palm to my cheek, and he taps it lightly. For some reason, I notice he has what looks like a paper towel duct taped to his finger.

Weird.

The guy stands up and walks away. I start to sit up and before I know it, he's back squatting down beside me. He hands me a bottle of water. "Here, drink this. I had it in my saddle bag."

I take a few sips, and immediately start feeling better. I look back again at the man, and it's like I'm seeing him for the first time.

My mouth goes dry and my skin prickles with awareness. He is unbelievably gorgeous. Almost super model perfection, but with a hint of danger and darkness. His hair is long, coming to rest right above his shoulders. It's a dark, brown color with glints of warm, golden highlights running throughout. His eyes are the color of spring ferns and framed by lashes so thick, I'm briefly jealous. His face is perfection. He has perfectly slashed brows, and a perfectly straight nose, and a perfectly square jaw.

He must have been cut from butter is my first thought. Or marble. Or buttery marble.

Best of all, he has at least a week's worth of dark stubble on his face, which makes him look menacing and sexy all at the same time. I take in with appreciation the tight fit of his Harley Davidson t-shirt and dark jeans, showcasing a lean and well-muscled body. He is the exact opposite of any man I have ever thought of dating, and my mother would consider him the Anti-Christ on just his dark looks alone.

I feel dowdy next to him and my hand subconsciously comes up to smooth my hair.

"Are you injured, Lady?"

I'm dumbfounded looking at him. I'm sure he probably thinks I swallowed my tongue in the accident but I have just been blindsided, by what I believe to be, the most physically splendid specimen of a man I have ever seen.

Seriously.

"Maybe I should call an ambulance," he says.

"Emily."

His eyebrows cinch together in confusion. "Excuse me?"

"My name's not Lady...it's Emily."

He gives me an exasperated look and I swear I hear him grumble, "I don't have time for this shit."

I take another sip of water and I'm feeling much, much better now. The fact that I was so petrified I could have killed someone and then almost fainted has completely left my mind. I'm just sitting here enjoying this magically, hot man in front of me.

He stands up and glares down at me. "Do you think you can stand up?"

I nod my head, expecting him to gallantly hold his hand out to me. It doesn't come and after a few seconds, I realize it's never going to come. So I push myself up from the ground, brushing blades of grass from the seat of my jeans.

"I'm assuming you're okay?" he asks.

I nod my head. "Yeah. It just freaked me out when I thought I had killed you. I've never fainted before."

"You didn't faint," he snaps. "You just got a little wobbly."

Okay. What was this a*shole's problem?

"You think I'm an a*shole? You just ran me and my bike over."

Oh, crap. Did I voice that a*shole comment out loud? Apparently, my brain is a little more addled than I thought.

I take a deep breath and then I start rambling...like an idiot. "I'm really sorry. I was distracted. I'm getting these crazy, stalker messages from my ex-boyfriend, and I'm afraid there may be a dead rabbit in a pot when I get back to my apartment. And then I got a call from my sister-in-law, but I know that's no excuse. I thought I had looked. I'll pay for the repairs. Are you injured?"

He's looking at me as if I was an alien. He shakes his head and sighs. "Let's go see what the damage is."

I follow him back over to our vehicles. My back bumper is crumpled in but his bike is a mess. It's dented all over and the front wheel is turned at a weird angle.

I can't think of anything to say, so I offer lamely, "It's a beautiful motorcycle."

He looks at me incredulously. "It was a beautiful motorcycle, you mean."

"Yes, that's what I mean," I respond politely. I feel like such a tool.

"Look, just give me your insurance information and we won't even bother to call the cops."

What? No! He cannot have my insurance information. You see, I've had a little problem with speeding tickets back in Boston along with two other wrecks, that technically were my fault but I could push some blame too on the other drivers if I was that type of person. Which I'm not...anymore. If I get any more insurance points, I can probably kiss my license goodbye.

"No. We can't put it on the insurance," I say adamantly. "I'll pay you for the damage myself."

He smirks at me and it makes me want to slap his face.

No, kiss his face.

Wait...definitely slap his face.

"Lady, do you know how much that motorcycle costs? There's no way you can afford it out of your pocket, and I don't care how much designer clothing or expensive jewelry you wear."

"For the second time, my name isn't Lady. It's Emily," I grit out. "And for your information, you have no clue what I can and can't afford."

"Do you have about $10,000 you can cough up?" he asks. "Because that's what it's going to cost in materials and labor. The front axle is completely destroyed."

Ten-freakin-thousand-dollars? Oh shit, I was in trouble. There is no way I can come up with that amount at one time. My parents let me draw two thousand dollars a month from my trust fund if I need it but he would have to agree to accept payments.

I put on my most conciliatory face. "Look...I am really, really sorry I did this. But I cannot put this on my insurance. I'll lose my car if I do."

"And this is my problem how?" he taunts.

"It's not. I'm just asking you for a little understanding. I can pay you in installments. Two thousand dollars a month until we are square." I end on a pleading tone but I can't help it. I have no room for pride here.

I watch fascinated as he runs a hand through the hair on top of his head, pulling the long locks back and holding them there. His hair is long enough he could put it in a short ponytail if he wanted. With his hair pulled back, his face is thrown into stark relief, so that his sculpted cheekbones say, "BAM" to me. The angels were definitely singing on the day this guy was created.

I wait with baited breath.

He finally releases the hold on his hair and it gracefully glides back around his face. I wonder if it's as soft as it looks.

"Fine. But I need your information so you can't welsh on me."

As if. "Fine, whatever."

I pull my wallet out and he copies down my license information. I give him my phone number, and he gives me his.

"What's your name?" I ask, so I can program it in my phone.

"Nix."

"Nix what?"

"Just Nix...that's all you need to know."

This man is infuriating. Hot, but infuriating. "Then how can I make a check out to you if I don't know your last name?"

"You don't," he says in a low, husky voice. "Bring me cash. Just call me when you have the first two thousand. I expect it within thirty days or else I'll come looking for you. And trust me...you don't want that to happen."

A shiver involuntarily runs through me and I can't tell if I'm scared or turned on by the danger in his voice.

And even though I'm pissed as hell that I've just blown $10,000 over my own stupidity, I can't help the fact that I'm looking forward to seeing this man again.