Thin Ice (39 page)

"No ... I'm in Minneapolis."

"Minneapolis! Mama, hurry up! She's caling long distance! Is that where you live?"

"Emily? Is it realy you?” Her mother's voice was watery, but there was no mistaking the joy in it.

Emily's fears evaporated. “Yes, Mama. It's me."

* * * *

Eric swore and flung the sports section aside in disgust, sending the mug of coffee perched on the arm of his sofa toppling toward his lap. Reflexively, he caught it before it scalded his naked vitals, and swore again when it sloshed onto his hands. He set the cup on the coffee table littered with empty pizza boxes and pop cans, snatched up a pile of napkins and mopped up the mess. Tossing the wet wad across the room, he grunted in satisfaction when it landed with a plop in the trash can.

He glared at the discarded newspaper, and itched to shove it down Robert Granger's throat. It wasn't enough the backstabbing bastard had gotten him to rol over ten years ago. The sonofabitch expected him to do it again. The Saints’ weakest link, Granger had caled him to do it again. The Saints’ weakest link, Granger had caled him. Too volatile, too undisciplined to lead a team al the way, he'd said. On the front page of the sports section.

"Christ,” Eric muttered, and ran a hand over his face as the old rage reared its ugly head. Where did Granger get off passing judgment on him? Granger was the one who'd slept with another man's wife.

Granger was the one who'd let him take the fal for beating the tar out of her, let him rot in jail while Monica told anyone who would listen a pack of lies about how violent their marriage had been.

Eric had been so hurt and confused and torn up inside that anger was the only emotion that had kept him sane. But his lawyer had told him to keep his mouth shut if he wanted to play hockey again.

If it had gotten out that he'd caught Monica in bed with another man that afternoon, a dozen fancy-suited lawyers wouldn't have been able to get him off. He'd have been convicted in no time flat. Crime of passion, there you go. It wasn't until years later that he'd found out what had realy happened.

And Bob Granger had counted on that.

Just like he was counting on Eric to keep his mouth shut now, dissing him in print with no fear of retaliation. Granger knew Eric didn't give personal interviews. He also knew why. Eric could live with the stigma of having been publicly branded a batterer. But his pride prevented him from publicly admitting he'd been cuckolded, then blackmailed into handing over everything his mother had left him, by his poor, victimized wife.

him, by his poor, victimized wife.

He'd never seen or spoken to Monica again after that night. She'd convinced everyone she was too terrified to be in the same room with him. She'd even had him convinced when he'd seen the pictures. Then, he'd almost felt sorry for her.

Until he'd read her proposed divorce settlement.

He'd sweated it out, refused to let go of everything his mother had worked so hard for, until his lawyer had told him he had no choice.

He'd been drinking that afternoon. The assault had taken place in his home. There wasn't a soul who could prove he'd been in that hotel room getting stinking drunk at the time of the assault.

In short, he'd had no alibi.

So he'd swalowed what was left of his pride, signed the settlement papers, and returned to work with a chip on his shoulder the size of Minnesota. For three weeks afterward, Granger sat back and watched him vent his fury on anyone who said good morning wrong. Then, satisfied his dirty little secret was safe, Granger arranged for his “too volatile” center to be traded, and sent him off with a smug smile.

Now he was back with that same smug smile, taking potshots at Eric in the paper and expecting to get away with it.

Eric eyed the stack of Bombers videotapes he'd invited his teammates over to watch the night before. Since he'd learned the teammates over to watch the night before. Since he'd learned the Saints would face the Bombers in the championship finals, he'd done nothing but review tapes and plot strategy, anticipating the moment he'd meet Granger's eyes across the ice. Anticipating the moment he'd let the smug bastard know Eric Cameron wasn't the amateur Granger had caled him while lying in Monica's greedy arms. The moment he let Granger know he knew who had sent Monica to the hospital ten years ago and let him take the fal.

It hadn't taken much to figure it out. Only a clear head and some quiet thinking. When she'd realized she'd lost her devoted husband, Monica had obviously caled her lover back to the apartment. She'd probably given Granger some sort of ultimatum—but Granger hadn't knuckled under. She'd probably threatened to tel his wife about their affair. So Granger had beaten the shit out of her.

Having lost both men in her life, and most likely her flawless looks, Monica had gone after Eric's inheritance from his mother. It hadn't been anything, compared to what he made now, but at the time it had meant the world to him. He'd refused to touch it, no matter how much Monica pouted. He'd planned to use it to honor his mother in some way when he retired and built his own hockey camp for kids.

Instead, he'd opened several Amelia's in her memory.

But at the time, he couldn't conceive of owning several classy restaurants named after his mother. At the time, al he could see was everything she'd worked so hard for being snatched away by a lying, cheating, murdering Monica.

Was it any wonder he'd gone balistic? He'd been too ful of anger at the time to react with anything but his fists. Then, when he'd finaly calmed down, he'd found himself with a reputation to uphold if he wanted to keep moving forward.

So he'd shut the door on the past. At times he'd convinced himself Granger had actualy done him a favor. He'd shed his unfaithful wife, moved into the big leagues a lot faster than he would have if he'd stayed in the minors under Granger's thumb, and embarked on a career that had eventualy taken him in the direction he'd wanted to go in al along.

But now Granger was back, saying Eric's success was just a matter of being in the right place at the right time. Hard work and the determination to overcome his reputation as a hothead didn't play into it at al. “Eric Cameron is stil the same volatile, undisciplined player he was in the minors,” Granger had said, making this whole thing personal. “And tonight, against the Bombers, he's going to prove it."

"Up yours, Granger,” Eric said. He'd come out fighting al right. But not in the way Granger expected him to. Tonight Eric planned to hit the ice with a powerhouse team of talented men behind him, a team determined to win the Cup hands down. So far the Saints had defeated their opponents with teamwork and superior skil. They'd finessed their way into the finals by playing like the professionals they were. While Granger's goons exploited their reputation as the most vicious hockey club in the league. They hit hard, fought dirty, cheated as often as they breathed...

But couldn't skate for shit.

And the Saints knew it. Eric had seen to that. He and the guys—

except for Cordel, who couldn't be bothered with such mundane details—had talked strategy until they were half hoarse. When they'd left at midnight Eric had never seen a more pumped up group of men.

With a satisfied smile, Eric pushed off the couch, poured another cup of coffee, and popped another tape into the VCR.

* * * *

Robbie couldn't stay stil. Emily couldn't blame him. If she hadn't been so excited herself, he would have worn her out. From the moment she'd told him he was going to fly in an airplane and meet his Grandma Jordan and a whole bunch of aunts, uncles and cousins, he'd been unstoppable. Wide-eyed and ful of questions, he skipped along beside her as she juggled tickets and luggage, and coped with her own disbelief.

Her father was dead. She was going home.

She'd barely had time to absorb the former before her mother had issued a firm invitation for the latter. When she'd hesitated, mostly from shock, her mother had calmly insisted it was wel past time she met her eldest grandson.

Unable to disagree, Emily had dialed the airport. A brief cal to Augustus had netted her a long overdue week off with his heartfelt blessings, and Anna had promised to cal Robbie's principal to inform her he would miss a week of school.

"Al I know is your grandma's planning a family picnic for next Saturday,” she said in answer to his latest question. “We'l see who shows up then, okay?"

Emily fastened his seatbelt and remembered how she'd begged her mother not to go to al the trouble, not to upset everyone's schedule, but Catrina had insisted. It wasn't every day her eldest child came home, and she deserved a ful-fledged homecoming party.

But Emily knew not al of her family had returned to Michigan after colege. Many were scattered across the country, and it was anybody's guess who would be able to drop everything and come home on a week's notice. Stil, she couldn't wait to find out.

Two hours later, the fasten seatbelts light dinged and the plane began its descent into Detroit. Amid the whir and hum of decelerating engines, Emily leaned over Robbie's shoulder as they burst through the clouds and approached the city below. Once they claimed their baggage, it would be less than an hour before she was home.

Home. Her stomach dipped and she was glad she'd insisted her mother wait for her at the house instead of corraling someone to mother wait for her at the house instead of corraling someone to drive her to the airport. Catrina Jordan didn't drive and never had.

Suddenly Emily wondered if somehow her own traffic anxieties had anything to do with her mother's decision not to drive.

It was something to consider, but not today. Rental car or no, Emily was glad she'd have a little more time to pul her emotions together before she stared her past in the face. She just hoped they had a decent-size vehicle available. When she'd caled for the reservation, they'd been unable to promise her anything.

"Ow! My ears just popped, Mom."

Prepared, she pasted on a confident smile and passed him a stick of bubble gum.

* * * *

Eric drove toward Emily's, determined to tel her about Monica whether she wanted to hear it or not. With Granger nipping at his heels, Eric had no idea what would show up in the papers next, and he wanted Emily to know the truth. The rest of the world could think whatever they wanted about him, but Eric couldn't stand the thought of Emily believing Granger's lies.

Not after what she'd told him about her husband.

Eric wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, and wished it were the cowardly bastard's neck. That was something else he would get to the bottom of. His visit with Carmen Martinez had led would get to the bottom of. His visit with Carmen Martinez had led his thoughts down some pretty strange paths, al of them pointing in the same direction. The man who had attacked Emily and her ex-husband were one and the same.

Carmen hadn't come right out and said it—in fact, she hadn't said much at al other than a cool, neutral, “I'm sorry, I can't answer that,” but the look in her eyes had been anything but cool and neutral. It told him she wished she could answer his questions, and she wouldn't have minded at al if he'd gone after the sorry SOB

and torn him apart.

If Eric hadn't respected her loyalty to Emily so much he would've kept at Carmen until he found the right buttons to push. Because he'd also sensed she wanted something from him. Something related to that personal interview he'd blown off when he first came to town. She'd mentioned it as he was leaving, mentioned giving it another shot next season if he was stil interested.

Not bloody likely, he'd thought. Not after reading her mind-boggling interview with Emily.

He'd read it at least ten times, and it stil had the power to send him into a slow burn. Miranda had handed him the article, and when he'd read Emily's name in the opening paragraph, it had nearly blown his mind.

She hadn't said a word about having been a battered wife, not one, until that helish night on her front porch. But the day before, while he'd pined away for her in some hotel room in St. Louis, she'd as he'd pined away for her in some hotel room in St. Louis, she'd as good as announced it in the newspaper. Why?

Eric planned to find out.

He strode up to the house, pleased to see her Suburban in the garage. He wondered if she'd gotten new tires, then snorted in disgust. The woman considered him a threat to her safety, but didn't give a second thought to driving around on a set of tires that looked like they'd explode if they hit an acorn.

Five minutes later, Eric was ready to kick in the front door. Only the thought that doing so would reinforce Emily's bad opinion of him held him back. That and the fact that he couldn't afford another visit to jail right now. Granger would eat it up.

He peered in the front window and caled her name, asking in as calm a voice as he could manage for her to please open up and let him in. No answer.

Feeling like a fool, he went to try his luck at the back door. At least the whole neighborhood wouldn't see him make an ass of himself that way. Minutes later, swamped by frustration, he swore and gave the doorknob a solid wrench.

"It works better if you have a key."

Eric spun around and met Anna's inscrutable eyes. “Anna.” He struggled to control the heat rising in his cheeks. “How's it going?"

"A damn sight better than it's going for you from the looks of it.