Had Henri actually saddled her with this dog of a project? She pushed aside the contract even though her heart was falling to her knees. “My deceased partner.”

“The company was named for the two of you, wasn’t it? Zoë Whipple and Henri Sebastien?” Stark looked smug.

Zoë sighed. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

Minutes ticked by while she studied the paperwork. She ignored the trio, who wandered around to check out her office. Sparsely decorated and free of distractions, it would bore anyone but the most dedicated film fan, so maybe they’d become fed up and leave.

No such luck. Worse, the contract told her that Henri had done it again. Like a fox trapped in a tree by a pack of baying, ravenous hounds, Zoë had no way out. None whatsoever.

Matters had gone from bad to worse during the last two years. She’d moved with her teenage children from L.A. to Utah after the death of her husband, hoping to make a fresh start among the colony of filmmakers in the Sundance area. Her business partner had stayed in L.A., which had appeared to make sense. The company needed a representative in the hub of the movie business. But deprived of her input, Henri had committed the company to projects she simply couldn’t do.

Then, misdiagnosed with AIDS, Henri had self-destructed in the mother of all drug binges. His death—suicide, actually—had left Zoë holding the bag, responsible for the filming and production of several movies in which she had no creative interest. Worse, Henri had spent all the advance funds paid to Zoë Sebastien Films for the work. As far as Zoë knew, the money had gone up his nose or into his veins.

She was stuck like shish kebob. Skewered. Screwed.

She made a last-ditch attempt to get out of this one.

“Look,” she said. “I don’t follow basketball, and I really don’t care about your championship season.”

“We play ice hockey, not basketball.” Stark’s voice had turned chilly. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, exposing cuffs embroidered with his initials and secured with dark sapphire links.

“Forget it, Starkers,” one of the other men said. His rough tone was softened by a pleasant French-Canadian accent. “She won’t work out.”

Attracted by his voice, Zoë focused on him for the first time. Up until that moment, she’d been hoping they’d all go away, especially this one. She didn’t like large men, and this giant towered a good seven inches above her own five-eight. He had to outweigh her by at least a hundred pounds. Her husband had been classically tall, dark and handsome, but this Viking was huge, blond and very, very scary. She just plain didn’t like what she saw—a hulking figure with streaky blond hair hanging into eyes that held an impatient expression. His nose looked as though it had been broken several times but never allowed to heal properly.

Though well-dressed in a tropical-weight linen suit, he wore it the way some men wore formal clothing—uncomfortably. The beige linen stretched over a Bunyanesque body. His oft-broken nose, big, rough hands and Viking stature served as a clear warning to any unwary challengers. He removed the jacket, exposing a collarless shirt in a masculine shade of pewter. No hint of a belly pushed at the front of his tailored trousers, which housed massive, muscular thighs.

He gazed at her with an almost predatory interest gleaming in his eyes, the precise and disturbing shade of compressed glacial ice.

“Zoë Whipple is the best,” Warren Stark said to the Viking. “We have to have her.”

She winced, realizing that her hard-earned reputation for perfectionism had a flip side. The ferret-faced owner of the Thunder hockey team didn’t understand her motivation. She liked to think that she pursued Castaneda’s path with a heart. Unless a project had a core of emotion, of excitement, she wouldn’t take it. And so far, this proposal held nothing she cared about.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound pretentious, but I’m in the business of creating beauty or finding truth. To be candid, oversized galoots bashing each other’s teeth out on ice with sticks doesn’t strike me as beautiful.” She eyed the giant blond, who looked as though he’d OD’d on steroids.

“You did a film on the Day of the Dead,” the oversized galoot said. “That was a grisly subject, eh? But you made it beautiful.”

Zoë was astonished. She guessed that the Viking was a hockey player based on his stature, his broken nose and the scars on his craggy face. But she wouldn’t have figured him for a film buff. Her documentary on Mexico’s Dia de los Muertos was an early student effort, obscure at best.

She scrutinized him again. “And you are…”

Stark said, “This is Daniel Crasseau, team captain.”

“Mr. Crasseau.” She nodded in his direction and extended a hand.

“Call me Crash.” His hooded eyes drooped. Perhaps he didn’t get enough sleep.

“Why?” she asked.

He tipped his shaggy head to one side. “Everyone does.”

“I’m not everyone, Mr. Crasseau.” Nevertheless, she shook his hand.

His clasp was at odds with his size and obvious strength. She disengaged her fingers from Crash’s palm, amazed that such a big man, engaged in such a violent sport, could have such a gentle touch. She couldn’t help but see that he didn’t wear a wedding ring and immediately recoiled from the unexpected realization that she’d actually looked, had actually noticed that a man was both appealing and available.

And it had only been two years since Paul had died.

“Um, Crash.” She rubbed her hand against her pleated khaki shorts. She needed to get rid of the disturbing giant, his arrogant boss and the entire project. But how? She decided to go on the offensive. “While I appreciate your interest in my work, I have no interest in yours. Sports are silly and hockey an obvious analog for sex.”

Crasseau’s brows lifted. “If you say so.” As if prompted by her mentioning sex, he scoped her body up and down.

She crossed her arms over her breasts, wishing she’d picked a more concealing garment than the tank top she wore due to the August afternoon’s warmth. “I do. Hockey is a violent sport, played by little boys with testosterone overload.”

The Viking rubbed his crooked nose. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Damn. He seemed to be taking her bad attitude in stride. Okay, so she’d ratchet up the bitch factor. “The game is an obvious sublimation of sexual impulses. You use a stick to shoot a puck through the slot to the crease.”

He smiled. “You sound as though you know a lot about hockey.”

“I read the paper, but that doesn’t mean I’m interested.” She shrugged. “The Utah Flash is big news around here.”

“Humph. They’re not a bad team,” he said grudgingly. “I used to play for them.”

So what? Zoë thought. “The sport is all about sex.” Hoping she’d get rid of the trio cluttering her studio, she said, “Don’t you get enough?”

Crasseau’s laughter erupted, a sharp, startling bark. The roughness of it jolted her. He sounded as though he didn’t laugh much. His shoulders shook but he controlled himself, and said, “Maybe you can take the opportunity to document our…neediness. You are known for finding the story beyond the obvious, eh?”

“That’s true.” She pushed her glasses farther up her nose to hide her surprise, but he’d thrust aside her defenses by quoting from one of her favorite works. Beyond the Obvious had been a film about a woman who’d kidnapped five children and raised them as her own. Perhaps, like the kidnapper’s case, there was more to this matter than was evident at first glance. She tapped her sandaled toe on the floor and frowned.

As though sensing defeat, the sweaty face of the third man crumpled into even unhappier lines. He looked ill, and Zoë couldn’t suppress a flash of empathy. She walked around Stark and Crasseau to touch the man’s unfashionable hound’s tooth sleeve as the Viking wandered off to snoop around some more. “Can I get you a glass of water?” she asked.

The man started. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his face. “I am not used to the altitude here.”

With thinning reddish hair combed over a balding dome and anxious grooves creasing his cheeks, the fellow really didn’t look well. She hurried to fetch a bottle of water from the mini fridge. After pouring it into a glass, she handed it to him. “You already know my name,” she said, smiling.

He drew deeply upon the drink. “I’m Victor Verhoeven, the coach of the Thunder.”

“And you don’t do well in the mountains.”

He whacked his chest and belched. “No, I really don’t. I’m from Vancouver and live there in the off-season.”

“And you spend your winters in Portland, at sea level.”

“Yes, that’s true. Thank you for the water. Won’t you reconsider?”

“Reconsider what?”

“Making this film for us.” Deep brown eyes, sunk in pockets of puffy flesh, regarded her over the rim of the glass as he took another sip. “This is probably my last year.”

“Oh.” Zoë didn’t find that hard to believe. Perhaps the altitude in Utah worsened his condition, but he appeared overweight and in poor health.

Stark put an arm around Verhoeven’s shoulders. “Victor, here, has yet to win the Cup.”

“Ah.” Though she didn’t follow sports, she knew enough to gather that Verhoeven had worked his patootie off for decades without attaining the Holy Grail of his profession—winning the Stanley Cup. She found herself sympathizing with the pathetic Verhoeven. She understood loss. Understood it very well.

She noticed Crasseau’s gaze straying toward the shelf full of awards she’d received for her work. His attention fixed on a foot-high golden statuette of a naked, sexless figure standing atop a reel of film. His eyes widened, and she couldn’t stop her smug smile.

She slammed the brakes on her reaction. What possible difference could it make if Crasseau liked her work or was impressed by her? She deliberately turned her back on him. Victor Verhoeven was far more important.

As if divining her thoughts, he said, “We are depending on you. You have a fine reputation, and at this late date, it won’t be possible to get someone as good.”

Revelation overcame her like a welcome summer rain—the story of Victor Verhoeven was her path with a heart. Oh, she’d need to find other angles so the film wouldn’t be one-dimensional, but if her instincts were on target, there was more than enough material in this motley trio.

Warren Stark, who seemed motivated by money, power and glory; Victor Verhoeven, who, after decades of struggle, wanted to go out a winner; and Daniel Crasseau, a study in contrasts.

Zoë Whipple wasn’t what or whom Daniel had expected. He’d expected a Hollywood type, a busty bleached blonde, maybe, in sexy hot pants and a tight shirt. Instead, Whipple was a petite brunette with a tousled pixie cut. Hazel eyes shone with intelligence behind chic black, oblong glasses. In loose khaki shorts and a casual top, she radiated good health rather than good sex.

Nice breasts, not eggs but not melons, somewhere in between. Very appealing. A little pooch of a tummy that rounded the front of her pleated shorts. That was okay with him. He didn’t like women who were nipped, tucked, lipo’d or inflated. Au naturel was best. A surgical scar was death to his libido. He and his friends had scars, and he didn’t want reminders of pain during sex.

Whipple had a clear, crisp way of speaking that told others she was a woman who wasn’t afraid, who would speak her mind, who could get what she wanted.

He wondered if she would want him, and for how long. She didn’t wear a wedding ring. That could be good or bad. Maybe she only liked other girls.

She caught him checking her out and sent him an uneasy smile. “I have to think about how I can do this.” Her two front teeth overlapped a little, giving her a cute, chipmunky air. He liked that.

Stark pounced on the little chipmunk. “You’ll do it?”

“Yes. I’m obligated by contract, and I stand by my company’s commitments. And I have to admit that Victor here interests me.”

Daniel noticed that she made a big show of ignoring him. He smiled. “What is there to think about?”

“Well, I have two children.”

Definitely not gay. Not married, either. This was good.

She continued. “They attend Utah State College. My son is twenty, but my daughter will be a freshman this year. I’d hoped to stick close to home, make sure she stays on the right track with her studies.”

“We can fly you back and forth in the team jet any time,” Stark said. “And we play several games against the Utah Flash. We’ll make sure you can see your kids plenty, Ms. Whipple.”

“And my crew?”

Stark gestured expansively. “You’ll have whatever resources and personnel you need to do the job right.”

Daniel decided to interrupt this little lovefest before Starkers gave away the farm. Never mind that Stark owned the farm, Daniel didn’t like the word “crew”. “We’ll have to set some ground rules,” he said.

“Ground rules?” Whipple asked.

“Yeah. We cannot have you and your crew disrupting the team.”

“Mr. Crasseau, I’m sorry, but I have certain artistic standards to meet.”

Despite the expression on Starkers’ face, Daniel shot Whipple his nastiest glare, the one that caused seasoned veterans to head to the bench and rookies to fall on their butts. “We have certain athletic standards we have to meet.”

“I’ll try to stay out of your way, but I’m very intense about my work.”

Duh, he thought. Whipple’s workplace was immaculate, its white walls featuring only framed articles about her films. One high shelf was crowded with trophies and other memorabilia.

A computer occupied a desk that was otherwise bare of clutter. The strains of cool modern jazz floated through the air. Meditative and intellectual, it reflected Whipple’s artsy image while counterpointing the differences between him and this woman. He liked headbanging hard rock—rink music—the louder the better.

“Intense?” He raised his brows. “You’ll fit right in.”

“In terms of fitting in, perhaps I can work without a crew for a while. Just hang out in the locker room—”

“The dressing room.” He checked out the shelf near her CD player. Pat Metheny, Dave Brubeck, and a bunch of other cool jazz stylists he didn't recognize. He wondered if she’d like the big-hair bands that the Thunder squad preferred.

“Okay, the dressing room,” she said.

He frowned. “I don’t know how the men will react to a woman in the dressing room.”

She went pink. “Isn’t there some sort of rule about female reporters—”

“True,” Stark said. “We can’t restrict female reporters more than men.”

“The same rules will have to apply to you,” Daniel said. He glanced at his coach. “We have a cup to win.”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll get in where I can, go to the games and so on. Just let the players get used to me. I can use the time to write the script. We’ll film later.”

“Yeah,” Stark said. “The games won’t truly heat up until the playoffs.”

“That might work out.”

But Crasseau’s tone suggested probably not. Zoë hoped his lukewarm enthusiasm would be enough. If the players refused to cooperate, the project would tank before she’d shot even one frame. Without fulfilling her contract, she’d end up with egg on her face. No, a dozen eggs, and her reputation might never recover.

The men finally left and gradually tension crept from her shoulders and neck. She rotated her torso from left to right to encourage the relaxation.

The door swung open, banging against the opposite wall, and Crasseau stuck his shaggy blond head inside her studio. Every muscle snapped to attention. “Is there anywhere around here we can get a snack?” he asked.

She rubbed her low back and smiled. “Um, there’s a little shop a few doors down called Sweet Surrender. It’ll have what you need.”

* * * * *

An hour later, at about three in the afternoon, Zoë sat at the counter of Sweet Surrender, talking with Melinda Jacobson, the owner. Mel had long, graying hair twisted into a braid, kind brown eyes and silver half-moon spectacles. She tended to wear shapeless neo-hippie apparel in earth tones.

Customers sat at only a couple of tables since the lunchtime crowd was long gone. Lauren, Zoë’s daughter, wiped down the counter while Zoë’s eldest, Jason, no doubt labored in the back office, wrestling with Sweet Surrender’s ledgers.

Sweet Surrender was the Whipple family’s home away from home. A little lost after Paul’s death, they’d left Los Angeles about a year after that terrible day. They’d been informally adopted by Mel Jacobson when they’d arrived in Utah, Mel, who’d never married, had lost her lifelong partner from complications arising from untreated, undiagnosed diabetes.

Everyone’s sorrows and needs had dovetailed neatly. Zoë shot beautiful commercials and photos advertising Sweet Surrender. Lauren cleaned, Jason did accounts and Mel cooked. And cooked and cooked and cooked—hearty soups and stews in the winter, sorbets and candy in the summer, designer teas and coffee drinks all the time.

“Quite an interesting crew you sent down here.” Mel set black coffee in front of Zoë.

“That was deliberate.” Zoë added two sugars then poured cream over the back of her spoon into the drink.

“I knew that.” Mel slid a plate of shortbread onto the counter. She poured herself a glass of iced mint tea and winked at Zoë. “I eavesdropped.”

Zoë grinned. “I was hoping you would.”

“They want you baaaad in Portland.”

“They do, and apparently they have me.” From the corner of her eye, Zoë saw Lauren approach, rag in hand.

“Huh?” Lauren dropped all pretense of cleaning to sit beside Zoë. “We’re moving to Portland? We just got here.”

Zoë noted the panic edging her daughter’s voice. Did Lauren have a boyfriend she didn’t want to leave? “You’re not moving, but it looks as though I’ll be traveling quite a bit in the next year.” She glanced at Mel. “Can Jason take a break? We need to talk. I might as well make one announcement rather than two.”

“He already knows about it.” Today Lauren wore a patterned purple skirt and matching halter top. Her short, dark hair was spiked high with purple, spangled gel. She adored the cult teen movie Heathers, in which one character wore only red. Lauren had picked purple as her signature color, and from the top of her gelled head to the bottom of her strappy purple sandals, wore only shades of lavender, violet and purple. Her toenails were painted a delicate shade of mauve, matching her fingernails, eye shadow and lipstick.

Despite Lauren’s wit—with one stroke, she’d deftly mocked the concept of forging a unique identity—Zoë hoped her daughter would quickly grow out of this phase.

“Did he also eavesdrop?” Zoë smiled at Mel.

“I was teaching him to use the espresso machine,” Lauren said.

“What did Jay think?” Zoë asked.

“What did Jay think about what?” Jason strolled out of the back office. “Hi, Ma.” Attired in cutoffs and a T-shirt, he bent his head to kiss Zoë’s cheek. Unusual behavior for a twenty-year-old male, perhaps, but her family had grown closer since Paul’s death.

“The hockey thing,” Mel said.

“Will you be able to get tickets to games?” Jason asked.

Zoë blinked. “I guess so. I didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t ask? What were you thinking?” He grinned.

“I was trying to get out of it.” Zoë stirred her coffee.

“What for?” he asked. “Especially if you can get Thunder-Flash tickets. That would be awesome.”

Zoë glanced at Lauren, who had lifted her hand into the air to admire her manicure. “I worry about you, Lauren. This is your first year. It won’t be easy.”

“I’ll take care of Lauren,” he said.

Lauren dropped her hand. “You don’t need to take care of me. I’ve never flunked a course in my life.”

“That’s true, but college is different,” Zoë said. “Play all day, party all night, and schoolwork gets done some other time.”

“That was you, Mom, not me. You went to film school in L.A. I’m here in Utah.”

“Studying what?” her mother asked.

Lauren shrugged.

“Hon, there’s more to life than the right shade of nail polish. Or watching hockey.” Zoë eyed Jason. “I’d planned to be here for you both.”

“But you’ll be traveling with the team, right?” Lauren stood and walked behind the counter to pour herself a glass of water. “They’re in the same division as the Utah Flash, so we’ll see each other a lot.”

“I guess so,” Zoë said with reluctance. She watched Jason’s chest swell as he drew a deep breath. She recognized his “man of the house” expression, a prelude to some pronouncement. She smiled, proud of her son, who’d grown up so fast after Paul died.

“Mom, take this job,” Jason said, trying to sound authoritative. “You need to do something new. Besides, you’ll get rid of Billy-boy.”

Zoë sighed and rolled her eyes. Fifty-year-old William Jackson, a retired banker-turned-rapper, had developed an attraction to her after just one lunch. Though she’d declined to see him again, gift-wrapped boxes had started to appear at her office door. The first had held a wreath of dried flowers. The enclosed note told her that Bill hoped she’d wear it at their wedding. Zoë had taken it back to him, explained herself, and hoped his attentions to her were over.

She didn’t know what the second gift box contained because she’d sent it back to him unopened via Jason and a couple of his studliest friends. From what Jay had told her, his friends had stood around, flexed their muscles, and tried to look intimidating while her son had been very clear about Zoë’s lack of interest in Bill.

That had been last week. She suspected that Bill had been amused rather than scared, but no additional gifts had arrived.

On the other hand… “That’s true,” she said. “If Bill hasn’t gotten the message yet, leaving town should certainly make the point.”

Mel said, “I agree. It’s not really my business, but if it’s these two you’re worried about, I’ll keep an eye on them.”

“And we’ll be living at home to save money,” Jason said.

“And we’ll still work here.” Lauren sipped her water.

“What could go wrong?” Mel asked.

Zoë swallowed. “This film could go wrong. It’s not my usual thing. I don’t know quite how to start this project.” She ran a fingertip around the rim of her glass.

“Why avoid a challenge?” Mel folded her hands in her lap and smiled at Zoë.

Zoë stared into space. Her mind shuttled through the possibilities as she tried to figure out how to approach this film. She avoided thinking about Crasseau, the disturbing gleam in his vivid eyes or the warm, gentle clasp of his hand.

She drummed her fingertips on the counter. “Why indeed?”

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From the book Puckheads By Sue Swift
Copyright © SUE SWIFT, 2009
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.
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