Three estranged sisters inherit their late father’s failing hockey franchise and are forced to confront a man’s world, their family’s demons, and the battle-hardened ice warriors skating into their hearts.
Irresistible You
Chicago Rebels #1
Kate Meader
Releasing Aug 14, 2017
PocketStar
Hot
in Chicago series author Kate
Meader returns with her all new, scorching Chicago Rebels hockey series, featuring her signature “steamy sex
scenes, colorful characters, and riveting dialogue” (Romantic Times).
Three estranged sisters inherit their late father’s failing hockey franchise
and are forced to confront a man’s world, their family’s demons, and the
battle-hardened ice warriors skating into their hearts.
Harper Chase has just become the most powerful woman in the NHL after the death of her father Clifford Chase, maverick owner of the Chicago Rebels. But the team is a hot mess—underfunded, overweight, and close to tapping out of the league. Hell-bent on turning the luckless franchise around, Harper won’t let anything stand in her way. Not her gender, not her sisters, and especially not a veteran player with an attitude problem and a smoldering gaze designed to melt her ice-compacted defenses.
Veteran center Remy “Jinx” DuPre is on the downside of a career that’s seen him win big sponsorships, fans’ hearts, and more than a few notches on his stick. Only one goal has eluded him: the Stanley Cup. Sure, he’s been labeled as the unluckiest guy in the league, but with his recent streak of good play, he knows this is his year. So why the hell is he being shunted off to a failing hockey franchise run by a ball-buster in heels? And is she seriously expecting him to lead her band of misfit losers to a coveted spot in the playoffs?
He’d have a better chance of leading Harper on a merry skate to his bed…
**Special release week price of just $1.99 **
Excerpt from Irresistible You
© Kate Meader
He looked
uncomfortable standing there, balancing on his skates, ready to spring for the
door. But she knew he wouldn’t sit while she stood because his mother had
raised him to respect women. Something fluttered in her chest at that notion.
DuPre might be a lot of things—ladies’ man, good ol’ boy, thorn in her side—but
she suspected he would never hurt someone weaker than himself.
“You’ve got three
minutes, Harper.”
“Do you remember
what I told you in Boston, DuPre?”
“Somethin’ about
needin’ me to instill leadership and help these boys get to the playoffs.” Warm
honey flowed through her veins at the timbre of his voice. She could have sworn
her panties slipped an inch.
“I did say that. I
meant it. And I thought you understood.”
He rubbed his
chin, the scrape against stubble delicious to her ears. All he was missing was
a Stetson, a blade of grass, and some flighty piece in a cropped tank and Daisy
Dukes. “I understood the words because you’d put them together in a highly
entertainin’ way, and to certain ears, they might make sense. Then I told you
what needed to happen to ensure my cooperation.”
This nonsense
stopped here. “Is that why you’re playing like you can barely walk, much less
skate? What’s wrong, old man? Feeling a touch of arthritis in your joints?”
For a brief
moment, she thought she might have found his weakness: vanity. But no. He
merely threaded his arms over his chest—over the Rebels logo of a big C with a
hockey stick and a cutlass crossed behind it—and cocked his head.
“You’re gonna have
to use a little more finesse, Harper.”
More surprising than
the fact Remy had used the word finesse
correctly in a sentence was that he didn’t seem annoyed with her. He seemed . .
. amused. As if she were a toy he could happily bat around like a kitten would
a semiconscious mouse.
Applause sounded,
signifying the beginning of the final period. Neither of them moved, hands
metaphorically hovering at their hips like Old West gunfighters.
“The trade
deadline,” she said, feeling livid and helpless. “Give me that.”
“The all-star
game.”
Three months. The
all-star game, held in late January, was traditionally viewed as the halfway
point of the season. On the cusp of the busy trade period, it led into a month
of bartering and haggling as everyone lined up their teams for the big push to
the playoffs.
At her hesitation,
he leaned in, those cobalt blues flashing. It wasn’t enough to unholster her
gun; she should have already taken her shot, and that delay was her undoing.
“Would you rather
three months of my full effort or a whole season of my skatin’ like I’m playin’
squirt hockey?”
“You can’t
seriously be reducing this to a game of ‘would you rather’?”
His voice dropped
to an intimate tone, her panties another inch with it. “If you shake on it now,
I’ll begin that full effort tonight.”
The siren blared
in the distance, followed by the home crowd’s roar. Five zip. Harper didn’t enjoy being blackmailed, but she enjoyed
losing even less.
She thrust her
hand forward impatiently. He took it in his firm grasp. That electricity
setting her skin aflame was her body telling her she’d made the right decision.
Nothing else.
“You have a game
to finish.”
He held on, and
now he inclined his head so close she could count each and every one of those
pretty-boy eyelashes. Her pulse rate spiked, and she was certain he could sense
it. Sense her heart thumping rabbit kicks, her vein pulsing in her throat.
“We’ve shaken on
it now, minou, so don’t you dare think about welshing. I might sound like I
spend my spare time spitballin’ from the rockin’ chair on my porch, but don’t
let my accent fool you none. I’m not the kind of man you want for an enemy. We
clear?”
She might have
rolled her eyes if she wasn’t just a wee bit impressed by his chutzpah. Still,
he needed to be informed that while he might have won this battle, the war was
far from over.
“Try not to trip on your way to the rink,
DuPre.”
He laughed, deep
and robust, clearly delighted with himself. Idiot. His thumb pressed against
her inner wrist, and a crackle of energy leeched from him into her body.
“You feel that,
Harper?”
She snatched back
her hand. “If you mean my goodwill evaporating with every second you’re
standing here, then, yeah, I feel it.”
“I think we’re
havin’ a thing.”
They were. Oh,
God, they were. “Why are you still here again?”
His mouth curved.
“Lady, I got the distinct feelin’ these next few months are gonna be fun.”
He picked up his stick and, with more grace than a six-foot-two brute wearing skates on dry land should possess, he left the locker room.
He picked up his stick and, with more grace than a six-foot-two brute wearing skates on dry land should possess, he left the locker room.
Originally
from Ireland, USA Today bestselling author Kate Meader cut her
romance reader teeth on Maeve Binchy and Jilly Cooper novels, with some
Harlequins thrown in for variety. Give her tales about brooding mill owners,
oversexed equestrians, and men who can rock an apron or a fire hose, and she’s
there. Now based in Chicago, she writes sexy contemporary romance with alpha
heroes and strong heroines who can match their men quip for quip.
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