The Billionaire Heartbreaker (2 page)

Bob chuckled. “For your sake, I hope that's true. Look, I don't want you to get the wrong impression about Travis. He's—”

“There's no need to explain,” Reily interrupted. “It's not my job to be his friend, or his therapist, or anything else. My job is to make sure he makes the right choices for his career so we can change the way the media sees him. Everyone will benefit from it in the long run. And though Travis might not see it that way right now, I'm sure when everything is said and done, he'll appreciate what you've done for him.”

Bob's good-natured laughter told Reily that he thought hell would freeze over before Travis thanked him. “We've never tried this approach before. Most times we slap the guy on the bench and wait for him to turn around on his own. We don't have that sort of time here, Reily. We need him on the ice with his head on straight and his focus laser-sharp. I need him in bed at a respectable hour and sober for practices.”

“I'll make sure that happens,” Reily replied.

“Call me if he doesn't show up tomorrow,” Bob said. “Or if he gives you even an ounce of guff.”

“I will. But I'm sure we'll be fine.”

Bob grumbled something unintelligible on the other end of the receiver. “I'll be checking in soon. Good luck.”

“Have a great rest of your day.” Reily tried to keep her own tone airy. “Goodbye.”

She set the receiver down on the cradle, bemused. Bob's doubtful tone had managed to rattle her confidence a small degree. She'd dealt with guys like Travis before. He couldn't possibly be that hard to handle.

At least, she hoped not. More than Travis Christensen's reputation weighed on her ability to wrangle him. If she failed, Reily had a feeling that her fledgling business would fail as well. She was bound and determined not to let that happen, though.

“Bring it on, Travis Christensen,” Reily said as she carefully made a note at the bottom of the bright yellow paper. “I'm ready for you.”

Two

Travis paused outside the door of Martin Public Relations and Image Consulting, his head still pounding from last night's party. He'd woken up in the spare bedroom of a friend of a friend of a friend's house on the outskirts of Flower Mound, naked, hung over, and alone. He wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up in the guest room, and if he'd been with someone, she'd cut out long before he was sober enough to remember. The worst part of all of it though, was that he'd had to endure the flash of paparazzi cameras as he stumbled down the sidewalk and into his car.

Nosy fuckers.

He stepped into an office not much bigger than his closet. For someone who'd staked her reputation on power washing even the dirtiest public image, his new image consultant didn't have the impressive executive space to back it up. Travis squinted at the woman staring at him from the lone desk, her lips pursed with disapproval and he swallowed down a groan.

Great. Looked like the morning was already off to a
stellar
start.

“You're late.”

“Good morning to you, too,” Travis grumbled as he flopped down in the chair opposite his assigned torturer. He slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and squinted at the name plaque on the desk—Reily Martin—before sliding them back into place.

“It's two o'clock in the afternoon.” She did nothing to hide the disapproval in her tone. “Our meeting was scheduled for nine. This morning.”

“Nine … two…” Travis glanced around the cramped office as he slumped back in the chair. Jesus, he needed some Excedrin. He didn't know what the big fucking deal was. It didn't exactly look like she had clients lined up at the door. “Whatever.”

The dragon lady let out a long-suffering sigh and spun her computer monitor toward him. “It appears you had a good time last night.”

Had he? Hell, he couldn't remember. Travis leaned forward in his seat and tried to make sense of the images blurred on the bright LCD screen. When his vision cleared, Travis's gut knotted up. Splashed across some woman's Instagram account were pics that detailed last night's antics. Looked like he'd had more than a little fun. Too bad most of the night was washed clean from his memory.

“Maybe I did,” Travis replied with a shrug.

“The internet is forever, Travis.”

Was she for real? He slipped his glasses down his nose once again to get a better look at the woman Bob had designated as his babysitter through the playoffs. The disdainful sneer he'd coaxed to his lips melted away. Her dark brown hair was pulled away from her face in a ponytail that cascaded down her back. The large, tortoiseshell frames of her glasses framed brilliant blue eyes that stood out in contrast to her nearly black lashes and the delicate arch of her brows. Her pink lips came together in another severe pucker that was cuter than it was disdainful. Her creamy skin looked as though she'd never put an ounce of makeup on it but it shone with a glow that women would pay good money to replicate. If not for her attempt at a sour expression, she was actually very pretty. Not exactly what he'd expected.

Travis tugged his sunglasses off his face and tucked them in the neckline of his t-shirt. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk as he affixed his most panty-melting smile on his lips. “Who doesn't want to be immortal?”

Reily's expression screwed up into something totally opposite of the reaction Travis had been going for. She looked confused—and a little like she thought he was an idiot. Usually, his intense eye contact and husky voice earned him blushes and giggles. What the hell? Was he losing his touch?

“Unless you want your immortality to be a montage of your walks of shame, I'd reconsider that opinion, Mr. Christensen.”

Travis looked around. Mr. Christensen? The last time he'd heard that title it was from a boardroom full of stick-up-their-butt executives and they'd been talking to his brother, Nate. “It's Travis,” he said with a grin.

One haughty brow arched gracefully over her crystal blue eye. Damn. She could give Bob a run for his money in the intimidating stare-down department. Though Bob wouldn't look half as hot doing it. Travis ruffled his hand through the long tangles of his hair and let out a gust of breath. Hard to believe he'd found a woman immune to his charm.

“I think people will remember me for more than that.”

Reily opened the file sitting in front of her and leafed through its contents. “Travis Christensen,” she said as a matter of fact. “Twin brother of Dallas Cowboys starting quarterback Carter Christensen. Clean cut, father of two, role model, and philanthropist. Engaged to be married and no matter how deep I dug, I couldn't find a single speck of dirt on him.”

Travis snorted. Carter had always been the squeaky-clean, all-American boy. “Yeah, well—”

“Older brother, Nate,” Reily continued, “Ex Navy SEAL, took the helm of your dad's company when he passed. In a committed relationship, foster father, donates fifty percent of his income to charity…”

What Reily didn't realize was that none of the brothers wanted anything to do with their old man's money. Nate couldn't sign the checks fast enough.

“Younger brother, Noah. County Sheriff. I tried to dig something up on him as well and came up empty-handed. You're sort of the black sheep, aren't you Travis?”

Good God, did Reily Martin run some sort of secret spy network in her free time? What didn't she know about his family?

“I'm not going to apologize for having fun,” he replied. “I mean, why not? I might as well enjoy myself while I'm young enough to do it.”

“You're twenty-nine,” Reily said.

Aaanndd?
The way she made it sound, he was knocking on death's door. “What's your point?”

Reily banged the edges of the stack of paper on the table to make a precisely perfect pile before setting them aside and trading them for a second stack. She removed the paper clip and set it in a tray on her desk. Travis wondered what she'd do if he scattered all of her neat papers and clips in a haphazard pile. She'd probably have a heart attack.

“Look, Travis. I'm not the enemy. I'm here to help you be the best
you
you can be.”

Did she have that load of crap printed on her business cards? “I am the best me I can be,” Travis said. “I'm the best goalie in the NHL right now. I'm making good money and I'm on track to have an even better season next year.”

“That's not what Bob Spencer says.”

“Bob's just doing his job.” No way would any of them be giving him shit if the owner's feathers weren't ruffled. “He doesn't care what I do as long as I stop the puck.”

“That's not true, Travis,” Reily said. “This is it for you. You either straighten up or they're not going to renew your contract.”

Her straightforward response caused his gut to knot up. He'd come here today to placate Bob. And yeah, Bob had thrown the threats around about benching him, but never in a million years would he have considered the possibility of his contract not being picked up for next season. In the span of a couple of minutes, Reily had changed the game. Travis might be reckless, but he wasn't stupid. Nothing mattered more than his career.

“Fine,” he said on a gust of breath. “What in the hell do you expect me to do to make sure that doesn't happen?”

*   *   *

Reily looked down at the stack of papers in her grip. Research she'd done in order to sway her reluctant client to man-up and play ball. Honestly, she'd expected more of a fight from Travis but all it had taken to crumble his resolve was the mention of his contract not being renewed. Bob Spencer would have been better off threatening him with that from the get-go.

“I, um … Well, for starters we need to…” Travis grinned and Reily's cheeks grew hot as she set down the papers and reached for her day planner. She'd known that he was good looking before he walked into her office, but up close and personal, Travis Christensen was downright disarming.

He was massive up close. So much bigger in person than the pictures she'd seen. His athletic build and muscles that stress-tested his t-shirt were definitely impressive but his bulk wasn't the most impressive of Travis's traits. Reily's gaze moved up from his torso and wide chest, past his broad shoulders. She paused and took in the strong, square set of his jaw, rough with dark stubble, and the sharp cut of his cheekbones. Intense hazel eyes studied her and when he reached up to brush his shaggy brown hair away from his brow, Reily's stomach did a little flip. Did he practice that move in the mirror? If so, it was damned effective.

“The last time I left a woman speechless was…” Travis's gaze slid to the side as though trying to remember. He flashed a wicked grin. “Oh, yeah. Last night.”

Dear lord
. Reily cleared her throat as she stuffed the papers back into the file folder. Yes, Travis was disarming, but also arrogant to a fault. That cockiness did
nothing
for her. Not. A. Thing. She gave herself a mental slap. The future of her business and, in fact, her entire career hinged on her ability to turn the bad-boy goalie around. Flirting wasn't allowed. Neither was enjoying it. This was a job. Period. And Reily needed to be sure to treat it like one.

“We'll start tomorrow,” Reily said. Her tone was all business as she traded her day planner for her phone. She opened the calendar app and typed as she talked. “You have a nine a.m. appointment with a stylist. After that, hair.”

“Whoa, whoa,
whoa
.” Travis held out his hands as though to stop her. “Stylist? Hair? You think you're giving me a
makeover
?”

Reily smirked. She liked seeing him thrown off his game. “Call it what you want. But the first step to improving your image is to change your outward appearance.”

“I'm not doing that,” Travis said. He folded his arms across his wide chest. “You might as well scratch that off your list right fucking now.”

Looked like he hadn't caved as easily as she'd thought. “I think we've already established that you
are
doing it. Especially if you're interested on keeping your place on the team.”

“You think dressing me up like some sort of librarian—” he waved his hand toward her suit “—is going to get the press to lay off of me?”

Reily's lips puckered as she looked down at her blazer. Just because she didn't dress like a waitress at Hooters didn't mean she was some sort of stuffy, uptight …
librarian
. And what was wrong with librarians, anyway? She let out a slow breath and focused her energy on not letting him egg her into an argument like they were six years old. “Not at all. But this isn't college, Travis. Ratty t-shirts and worn Levis aren't going to cut it. You're a professional and you earn a professional's salary. You need to give the world the impression that you mean business and that your job is important to you. You're representing the Stars. If you want to be taken seriously—as a serious athlete—then you need to look the part.”

“I thought the pucks I catch in my glove did that for me,” he said with a scowl. “Designer slacks and a tie aren't going to help me on the ice.”

Reily didn't think she'd ever met anyone as stubborn as Travis Christensen. Or anyone as reluctant to change. She was asking him to get a haircut for crying out loud. Not cut off his leg! “I think you and I both know that your ability to stop a puck has no bearing on whether or not you're a professional where the press is concerned.” She turned her computer screen once again to give him another look at the photos posted to TMZ's website. “Not when you're giving them more sensational things to report on.”

Travis looked her dead in the eye. “Who I fuck and how I choose to spend my time is no one's business.”

He was trying to shock her but it wasn't going to work. She'd seen—and heard—it all. “When you're famous and live your life as publicly as you do, it
absolutely
is.”