Trapped with the Maverick Millionaire

By: Joss Wood

Troy was right to worry. Earlier, she’d hesitated and had stood outside of his room, debating whether to go in. Partly because of that almost-kiss years ago, partly because she knew she shouldn’t be there, despite Kade’s request.

The bottom line was that Mac was a sportsman who needed her expertise and her mat. It was crucial to get his blood flowing through the damaged capillaries to start the healing process. The longer she delayed, the longer he would take to recover. Healing, helping, was what she did, who she was, and she’d fight the devil himself to give a patient what he needed, when he needed it.

Besides, there was little chance of her being discovered in Mac’s room. The Annex Clinic was an expensive, private ward attached to St. Catherine’s, the hospital situated in the exclusive Vancouver suburb of West Point Gray. Every patient admitted into The Annex had two things in common: they were ridiculously wealthy and they wanted total privacy. Each patient had their own private nurse, and Rory had lucked out because Troy was assigned to room 22.

Not only would he keep her interference a secret, but because he was in the room with her, Rory resisted the urge to run her hand through Mac’s thick hair, over his strong jaw shaded with stubble.

He looked as good as he had years ago. Maybe better.

His beard was dark but when he grew it out, it glinted red in the sun. As did his dark brown hair. The corners of his eyes had creases that weren’t there a decade ago. He looked, if she ignored his bandaged arm, stronger, fitter and more ripped than he had at twenty-four.

She was a professional, she reminded herself, and she shouldn’t be mentally drooling over the man.

“How did you even know he was admitted?” Troy demanded.

“Are you sure he’s asleep?” she asked Troy, ignoring his question.

“Morphine. He was in severe pain and it was prescribed.” Troy looked at his watch. “Getting back to my point, he only came out of surgery two hours ago and was injured no more than six hours ago. How did you know he was here?”

Rory stood back from the bed and pushed her hands into her lower back as she stretched and explained that Kade, who’d taken on the CEO responsibilities and duties when the owner/manager of the Vancouver Mavericks died, had called and asked her to check on Mac and give her professional opinion.

Troy frowned, worried. “Which is?”

“It’s bad, Troy.”

Troy swore and Rory knew his disappointment and concern would be shared by most of the residents of Vancouver, Mavericks and Canucks fans alike. Mac was a hell of a player and respected for his leadership and skill. Maverick fans would be devastated to lose their captain for a couple of matches. To lose him for the season would be a disaster. Losing him forever would be a tragedy. But she’d treated enough sport stars to know the impact of his injury, both physical and emotional, would be tremendous.

“How did the surgery go?” Rory asked Troy.

“Good.” Troy cleared his throat. “We really could get fired, Rorks. Even though I know the voodoo blanket helps, it’s still a form of treatment and you’re not authorized. I like my job.”

Rory knew he was right, but she still rolled her eyes at her best friend. “As I’ve explained to you a million times before, the blanket is not voodoo! It sends electromagnetic signals that stimulate the pumping of the smallest blood vessels. It will help normalize the circulation in this injured area. Kade asked me to be here. He’ll work it out. It’ll be okay, Troy.”

When Troy narrowed his bright green eyes, Rory looked away. “This will run for the next thirty minutes,” she said. “Why don’t you go get some coffee?”

She needed to be alone with Mac, to get her thoughts—and her reaction to him—under control.

“Ok, I’ll be back in thirty.”

Troy sent her a worried smile and left the room. When the door closed behind him, she turned back to Mac and couldn’t resist the impulse to place her hand on his chest, directly over his heart. Under the thin cotton of the hospital gown she felt the warmth of his skin.

She kept her hand there, trying not to wish she could run it over his hard stomach, down the thick biceps of his uninjured arm. He was so big, his body a testament to a lifetime dedicated to professional sports, to being the hardest, toughest, fastest player on the ice.

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