2

      BY THE TIME Claire stowed the bike around the back of the arena, leaving it under the envious eye of a security guard, the rest of the contingent from the magazine was already inside, clustered by the home team’s bench.

      She walked over quickly, blowing on her fingers as she went. As requested, the management had lifted the basketball flooring, leaving the rink bare. With only a handful of people in the cavernous space, the building was cold. Figured. It seemed that Claire had felt cold for the last five years or so.

      She rubbed her hands together and approached the group. Trish was busy talking on her cell phone. Her assistant, Elaine, also clad in fur and leather—though how she could afford it on an assistant’s pitiful salary was beyond Claire—was talking to a heavy-set man in a blue suit. He, in turn, was carrying a large walkie-talkie. Must be the Garden’s manager, Claire figured.

      Meanwhile, a small gaggle of young males was huddled near or on the ice. One row up, on his own cell phone, was an intense-looking, well-groomed man in his thirties. Slicked-back hair. Black cashmere coat. The type of coat that owed its origins to well-groomed sheep and top negotiating skills. Claire would bet her newly purchased fifty-dollar tube of moisturizer that he was Jason Doyle’s agent.

      And within an easy, fifteen percent reach of that well-tailored arm was the man himself. Why else would a throng of men be acting with the giddiness of acneriddled adolescents at a high school mixer? Claire heard snatches of conversation as she approached. Phrases such as “Stanley Cup play-offs,” “number of assists” and “babes” punctuated the talk. Boys will be boys, no matter what age, she thought.

      “Hey, guys, I hate to break up this little group, but business is business,” Claire announced. One of the technical crew, a young fellow with an earring and the requisite straggly goatee, stepped out of the way, revealing a clear sighting of Jason Doyle, who was signing a few autographs. He looked up at the sound of her voice.

      Unconsciously she tucked the gray lock of hair behind her ear. Her chin-length bob was chosen strictly for practicality. More often than not, she cut it herself; a habit that seemed to distress the hairdressers she visited intermittently. Their hand-waving bursts of enthusiasm about letting her thick, wavy hair frame her prominent cheekbones and accentuate her heart-shaped jaw, and their coloratura songs of praise for the wonders of highlights, didn’t seem to justify the many hours required to spend sitting in a hairdresser’s chair, draped in a plastic cape that invariably made Claire sweat in places she didn’t know she had glands.

      “Sorry to interrupt, but could you just show me where you’ve stowed the gear?” Claire asked. “I also need to talk to someone about the lighting. If we’re shooting this in color, I’d like to have more light.”

      “Righto.” The lanky techie bounded off, taking huge steps, to speak with Mr. Walkie-Talkie.

      “I’m impressed.”

      Claire didn’t need to look over to know who was talking. Even without raising his voice, Jason Doyle’s delivery had enough firepower to knock a tin can off a fence railing from twenty feet away. She turned her head and felt caught in the crosshairs of his stare. “It’s my naturally authoritative air,” she said, no longer feeling quite so confident.

      “It certainly made me snap to attention. Siegfrid and Roy could learn a thing or two from you.” Jason walked toward her, the hangers-on peeling away reluctantly.

      “Well, I usually draw the line at large animals with claws.”

      “You sure about that?” He held out his hand. Claire noticed that his nails were clipped short, but the sinews on the back of his large hands attested to a sizable strength. “I didn’t realize outside that you must be—”

      “Claire Marsden.” Someone else’s well-manicured hand reached Claire’s first. “I’m Vernon Ehrenreich, Jason’s agent. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Though I must confess, I’m a little surprised to see you’re the photographer for the story. I thought you were more a newsperson.”

      Claire gave Vernon a pinched smile and was just about to give him something else when Trish rapidly descended on them, a remarkable accomplishment considering her spike heels.

      “Vernon, Claire, I see you’ve already made the introductions.” Trish snapped shut her cell phone. “I can’t tell you how lucky we are to have Claire. Didn’t I tell you we wanted to capture a journalistic flair for the art? After all, what better way to portray a man of motion like Jason? In fact, when I mentioned Claire’s name to Jason, he jumped at the opportunity.”

      That last bit of information was news to Claire. And for all she knew, it was also news to Jason Doyle, but he didn’t appear to question the statement. Claire shifted her weight from one foot to the other and waited. Trish could talk a vacuum cleaner salesman into buying brooms. Not that she felt she needed to be defensive. Claire was proud of her credentials. True, sports had never been her beat, and she was not a celebrity photographer by any stretch of the imagination. But the Claire Marsden photo credit carried a lot of weight in the publishing world. And Trish had assured her up and down, left, right and center, that her background would not be an issue.

      So here was Vernon, clearly angling to protect the bankable quality of his star.

      “Action is one thing. But I thought we were talking sports photographer. No offense, Claire.” Vernon held up a deferential hand. Claire nodded coolly. What she wouldn’t give for a stray pigeon to suddenly drop a not so little gift on Vernon’s gelled head. No, maybe on his coat. The sight of blemished cashmere might send him into anaphylactic shock.

      “I supposed a Pulitzer counts for nothing?” Trish interjected.

      Jason turned to Claire. “A Pulitzer?”

      Claire shrugged. “Actually, it’s two.”

      “Well, you may not value Claire’s news experience, but I’m sure you saw January’s Focus Magazine with Clyde Allthorpe on the cover?” Trish went on.

      Claire saw Vernon’s jaw drop. Who hadn’t seen the magazine cover showing the running back, dripping with water, with a giddy grin adorning his face and, what appeared to be, little else on the rest of his body? The issue had set a record for the most newsstand copies ever sold. It had made every television entertainment show, and even become the running joke of late-night television hosts. Public radio had wanted to do an analysis of the phenomenon. What more could a girl ask for in the way of fame and fortune?

      Well, she could have the fame and fortune of Clyde Allthorpe, who, as Vernon knew only too well, was the proud possessor of the largest endorsement contract among professional athletes. It was even an endorsement contract that eclipsed Jason’s, which as timing would have it, was due for renegotiation. And speaking of renegotiation, Clyde had signed that contract after the cover photo had hit the stands.

      “You took that photo?” Vernon asked Claire.

      “I did,” Claire said. “But you’ve got to understand—”

      “What’s to understand?” Trish interrupted. “I think Vernon