“What about our problem?”

“Our problem?”

The bastard was going to make her say it. Well, she was fine with meeting it head-on. “This thing between us.”

He sat on the windowsill and threaded his arms across his blockbuster chest. The fabric of his pinstripe pants molded his thigh muscles in a way that sent a flush on an all-stops tour of every erogenous zone in her body.

“It’s chemistry, Alexandra. Merely a physical reaction that’ll play well for the press and public.” He cocked an eyebrow in challenge. “Worried you won’t be able to keep your hands off me?”

“I think it’s pretty clear who kissed who in that closet, Mr. Mayor.”

“Perhaps, but actions speak louder than words. Your lips were very active. As were your hands.” His gaze dropped to her traitorously active mouth. “We’re adults. I think we can get through a few appearances without mauling each other. Unless you think you can’t.”

“I’m not one of your usual Trixies, Cooper. I can resist you.”

“Excellent.” He thrust out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

She considered it. A handshake felt rather tame considering what was at stake: the financial future of her family, Eli’s election chances, her soul. Maybe she should whip out her Swiss army knife and suggest they seal this in blood.

Abandoning the mental dramatics, she took his hand. Warm and filled with life, it conjured up wicked images of how good it would feel in a rough rub against her throbbing sex.

Oh. God.

She crashed through the in-for-a-penny gate and uttered the word that sealed her fate with Darth Cooper.

“Deal.”

 CHAPTER EIGHT

The security guy at the VIP gate to the United Center executive suites was acting like Alex was a criminal. Or a Red Wings fan.

“Could you check again? My name is supposed to be on there.”

With a grimace of infinite patience, he consulted his list for the third time. “Nope.”

She was tempted to throw out a Hollywood-style Do you know who I am? but she refused to be one of those people. Feeling more anxious by the second, she checked her phone again.

Eli’s assistant, Whitney, had promised Alex’s name would be on the special list guaranteeing entry to where the beautiful ones hung out scarfing wings and pretending to watch the Chicago Blackhawks kill it on the ice. Executive suites were wasted on these people! Alex actually wanted to see the game—Hawks vs. Wings, who wouldn’t?—and was now realizing that she’d have better luck seeing it on her phone.

It was her own fault she was running forty-five minutes late. Blue, her crotchety old Chevy pickup, had chosen today to exact vengeance for not having been taken in for a winter tune-up. The old girl refused to start, every turnover of the engine sounding like “Fuck you, Alex. Good luck finding a cab.”

Then the cab she finally snagged after thirty minutes wasn’t allowed to enter the VIP parking lot, so she had to walk. Usually not a problem; bipedal locomotion was one of her many skills. But it had started to snow. Blizzard levels with wind gusts that had her questioning why she lived in a place where the air hurt her face. Oh, to be Snuggie-wrapped on her sofa with a burrito, a Goose Island IPA, and a binge watch of Homeland ahead of her.

The security guy stared her down. “You’re going to have to move aside, ma’am.”

Whitney wasn’t answering, which meant either Alex went home and looked like she’d blown it off or she’d have to call him. Except she no longer had his number because she had erased it before his eyes in protest. Nice goin’, dumbass.

While she was pondering her options, her phone rang. “Hello?”

“Thought you were raised not to speak to strangers.”

That lazy drawl coursed over her, shiver-shocking every cell. Since their “moment” in the closet, she had been far too aware of the sensual promise in that voice.

“You know me. I like to live dangerously.”

“Something you’re doing right now. Why the hell aren’t you here?”

“I am. I’m at the security gate and they can’t find my name—”

He swore in a manner that might lose the senior demographic.

“It’s not my fault,” she grated.

“It never is. Stay where you are.” He hung up.

She gave a “just my pal, the mayor” shrug at the security guy, but he was already talking on his phone, and three minutes later she was in the elevator to the penthouse suite level. The first thing she’d do would be hit the restroom to thaw out and check the madness known as her hair and—

The elevator doors split apart to reveal a harried, pixie-featured blonde. Slacking-on-the-job Whitney, Alex assumed.

“Where were you?”

“I’m sorry.” But Whitney was already manhandling her forward, and it took considerable muscle to manhandle Alex.

“The mayor’s been asking for you,” she said in a tone of disbelief.

Well, you probably should have made sure my name was on the list, chicky. Instead of griping, she cut the girl some slack. If she had to plan every minute of Dr. Evil’s day, she’d probably drop the ball on occasion, too. “I need to head to the restroom first.”

But her primping needs fell on deaf ears. This girl had a job to do: deliver lost firefighter to pissed-off mayor, and she was not stopping until the mission was accomplished.

The suite was The Tits: wall-to-wall flat screens, an amazing view of the ice, a full (open) bar, and . . . yes, food! Her stomach cheered. In an effort to lose a few pounds, she’d restricted today’s calorie intake to three Babybel cheese rounds and half a mint chocolate Clif bar.

Though it looked like she’d have competition for the nosh. There had to be at least fifty people here, a mix of Chicago celebrities and sports icons. She had walked into a Nike All-Stars commercial. Was that Billy Mendez, the pitcher for the Cubs, chatting with Bastian Durand, the Hawks’ injured right wing forward? And Jeremy Castiglione, the Bulls’ revered point guard? If these were the circles Eli moved in, then her dating options had just improved by a factor of ten thousand.

Except they would think she was already taken. Taken by the mayor.

Then all those dating options that were likely figments of her overoptimistic imagination vanished when she saw Eli.

Whoa. He wore black denim that hugged him in places she did not want to acknowledge but couldn’t help herself because hells yeah, the man looked amazing in jeans. Up top he rocked a well-cut sports jacket and a white shirt open at the neck, just like the night of the fire. But this was an intentional skin reveal. Intentional sexiness.

She wanted to lick the hollow at the base of his throat and work on down like a ravenous kitten. The thought made her nipples harden. Then it made her mad.

Dammit, nipples, stand down. It’s just a publicity stunt.

Beside him, inclining her head in a very intimate way, stood Madison Maitland, looking like she was fully recovered from her near brush with death a few days ago. As usual, she had it going on in a gorgeous emerald green wraparound dress that clung perfectly to her svelte body. Surprisingly the press had never made a big deal of her short-lived marriage to Eli, but then Alex supposed a PR guru like Madison Maitland was an expert at spinning a set of circumstances to her client’s advantage.

Only right this minute, they didn’t look like mere client-PR professional. Not one bit. Their cozy huddle set something dark and hungry clawing at Alex’s chest.

She raised her eyes to meet Eli’s penetrating gaze. He raked a thorough glance over Alex’s body, taking vicious inventory and making her question, oh, everything. Unlike Madison and practically every other woman in the suite, Alex looked like a schlub in her bulky parka and her Joan of Arctic snow boots. The fifteen minutes she had spent squeezing into her Gap jeans were today’s cardio.