Mom and Mr. Valentine

By Judith Bowen

HARLEQUIN®

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

CHAPTER ONE

''God bless Mommy and Daddy-in-heaven and Poppa and Nana and Grandma and also Grandpa Dan and Coach Milfort and Boxer and Trev and Mr. Valentine and, please God, make Mr. Valentine help coach the Ravens 'cause we need him bad....''

Lisa smiled and smoothed back the cowlick on her son's damp forehead. He was screwing up his face, eyes tightly closed, in his fervent plea to the Almighty. His little eight-year-old hands—fingernails none too clean, she noted, despite the bath— were clasped over his chest.

Lisa wondered how he got any sleep at night. He was wearing his favorite Vancouver Canucks PJ's with the duvet pulled up to his chin. Every other inch of the bed had an item of hockey equipment jammed onto it, including the new goalie equipment he'd received for Christmas—pads, gloves, even his helmet next to his pillow. She hoped it was just a stage he was going through.

Boxer, the unfortunately named dog of the same breed—an SPCA rescue—lay quietly in her basket by the door. Lisa suspected that the one small clear space at the end of the bed, near Tim's legs, was reserved for Boxer, and the second Lisa left the bedroom, that was exactly where the dog would be.

''Who's Mr. Valentine, honey?'' Lisa asked as she bent to drop a good-night kiss on her son's cheek.

His blue eyes were huge. ''You know Mr. Valentine, Mom. You've seen him on TV. He's really Patrick McCarthy. You know him, Mom, he's the best player on the Canucks! Wham! Bam!'' Her son made some knock-'em, sock-'em gestures under the covers.

''Oh, yes.'' Lisa grimaced and smoothed his duvet over his chest. ''That Mr. Valentine. Now, you go straight to sleep. Big field trip tomorrow, remember?''

Her son reached up and squeezed her around her neck.

'''Night, Mom,'' he whispered, with the crooked grin she knew so well. So like his father, sometimes, it broke her heart.

Ah, that Mr. Valentine. She'd seen him on television many times. Patrick McCarthy was a big, tough winger on Tim's favorite NHL hockey team. He was what they called an ''enforcer,'' a physical player whose job it was to ''protect'' the star scorers. Tim and his buddy, Trevor, never missed a game on television.

Lisa gathered up an armful of laundry and left Tim's room, quietly closing the door behind her. The Mr. Valentine part? She'd seen the advertising.

It was something to do with the Canucks raising money for a good cause. Children's Hospital, she thought. ''Mr. Valentine'' was a hockey player designated each February to be some lucky lady's Valentine date, the result of a draw, tickets twenty bucks apiece. She'd seen McCarthy's face on billboards and posters promoting the event. Lucky? She supposed some women were attracted to the type. Sporty women. The same women, maybe, who loved WWF wrestling.

Not her.

Lisa frowned as she stuffed clothes into the washer. Hero worship, that's all it is. Tim would grow out of it. She did her best to be both mom and dad to her son, but sometimes it was hard to know if she was succeeding.

Since they'd moved to White Rock in october, Tim had lived, breathed and slept hockey—witness his room. He'd begged her to sign him up for the local Atom team and after he'd made goalie, she'd heard of nothing else. He'd asked Santa for goalie pads for Christmas, and he was saving up his allowance so he and Trevor could go to a real hockey game at GM Place someday. When he wasn't on skates or in school, he and his friends, a motley crew of boys and girls ranging from Tim's age to young teenagers, played road hockey nearly every afternoon in the parking lot of their condo development, to the chagrin of some of the neighbors.

Thank heaven his schoolwork wasn't suffering.

Not that they had much homework in Grade Two. She'd met with Mrs. Shepherd just last week, and the motherly, gray-haired woman had said that Tim was doing well for someone who'd transferred partway through the school year. His reading skills were sound, she'd said, he had plenty of friends and he seemed to have been blessed with a robust imagination. Lisa worried briefly—was that school code for tells lies?

Imagination! He had plenty of that, all right, as long as it involved hockey.

''Got your rain jacket, just in case?'' Lisa glanced out the kitchen window as she deposited her plate and cutlery in the dishwasher. It looked like rain. of course, at the end of January, almost every day looked like rain here on the West Coast.

''In my backpack,'' Tim replied, without raising his eyes from his bowl of Froot Loops. ''The Enforcer might help coach our team, Mom!''

''Your phone money?'' Lisa always made sure her son had two dollars in quarters for phone calls. So far, she hadn't sprung for the extra expense of a cell phone but realized more and more how handy it would be to have one, especially when she had to make unexpected changes in the arrangements for Tim's care. What she would've done without Dan Kristofferson next door, she didn't know. Dan was Tim's best friend's grandfather, and her son called him Grandpa Dan, just as Trevor did.

''Yeah,'' he said, looking up at her. ''Did you hear me, Mom? The Enforcer—'' here Tim put down his spoon and eagerly punched the air, with several bam! boom! sounds to go along with it ''—might help coach our team, Mom. Isn't that great?''

''Yes, that's great, honey,'' Lisa murmured, frowning despite herself. Mrs. Shepherd's reference to her son's robust imagination was a little too accurate. It was beginning to worry Lisa. Now he'd invented the scenario of a professional hockey player coming out to White Rock to help coach his Atom team! ''Finish up, honey. I want to leave in about five minutes.''

She made Tim's bed quickly and checked her appearance in the mirrored closet door one more time, brushing her hand over the trim lines of her navy skirt. Lint? Didn't see any. Her freshly ironed white cotton blouse and navy sweater looked professional. Yesterday she'd worn a red turtleneck and vest with the same skirt. She didn't have a huge wardrobe; everything she bought, almost always on sale, had to mix and match.

''Okay?'' Lisa grabbed her purse, car keys and plain beige trenchcoat. Sometimes she yearned to put on something that wasn't sensible at all. Something flamboyant. Fun. Impractical. Expensive.

Something that wasn't navy or beige.

Tim knelt, both arms around Boxer, indulging in his usual prolonged goodbye, while Boxer whined and ''kissed'' his cheek enthusiastically, her stubby back end wagging fiercely. What a dog. You couldn't help being totally charmed by the irrepressible boxer personality—and at the same time feel totally exasperated by the exact same personality. Eagerness, enthusiasm, endless affection, nicely balanced with plenty of slobber and unlimited energy.

Not to mention absolutely no aptitude for learning even the simplest command, like ''sit!'' Lisa knew she had to take action. Check out doggie school, perhaps. Someone at work had told her that consistency was the key, ten-minute sessions repeated several times a day, but where did she have those minutes except on weekends?

After dropping Tim off, Lisa had a fifteen-minute trip to South Langley, where her employer was located. She enjoyed the drive. Green fields in the dead of winter, ducks and geese, and those wonderful long-necked, black-beaked swans, drifting like powder puffs in the water-filled ditches or grazing in fields. The trumpeters overwintered here, before going south in the summer, and many Canada geese stayed year-round.

This little corner of British Columbia was beginning to feel like home. Moving to their beautiful, affordable condominium in White Rock from Toronto last fall was their last move, she vowed. What could be better? only four blocks from the sea. A mild damp winter, which was an agreeable change from snow. Close to shopping and on a bus route.

Two bedrooms, a huge patio, even a laundry room. Her in-laws, bless them, had helped her with a down payment and now it was up to her. A new life.

She was determined to make it happen. The job she'd landed with the South Langley construction firm, Shitako Homes, was a good start. It made the hard slog of the past few years worthwhile. She'd been a single mother, widowed at twenty-one with a new baby, living on insurance money at first and then with her in-laws. She'd gone to school parttime to get her certified general accountancy qualifications, and she'd worked part-time taking care of plants every spring and summer at a nursery, saving every penny.. . . It hadn't been easy.

But all that had changed. She wasn't even lonely anymore, she'd decided. Now she had a dog with no discernible manners to train, a son who needed her to go with him to practices and games, and extra tax-preparation work, which meant welcome extra dollars. With all of that, Lisa was too busy to worry about meeting someone to share her life.

Lydia Lane, her friend in Toronto who'd been a real support through the hell of the past seven years, thought she should be dating. Lydia said all work and no play made for a very dull girl and Dave had been gone a lot of years and it was high time. Perhaps so, but that was easy for Lydia to say, a single woman with no dependents and a great job.

Dull? If that was true, dull was just fine with Lisa Hudson. Dating was...well, risky. And time-consuming. She didn't know anyone in Vancouver or White Rock, beyond the people at work and Dan Kristofferson next door and he had to be about a hundred and ten! Well, seventy at least. Hardly the sort who was in a position to introduce her to suitable younger men.

Had she remembered to put a note in Tim's backpack asking Dan to take him to his seven o'clock hockey practice? She was planning to stay late today.

Grandpa Dan—everyone called him that—was her lifesaver. He was a retired train engineer, a widower, who lived right next door and baby-sat regularly for his son and daughter-in-law, both of whom worked, so he was generally available to pick up his grandson, Trevor, and Tim after school. Not only that, he didn't mind taking her son to practices and even games if Lisa couldn't make it. Lisa paid him for the after-school care, plus the meals he fed her son. The arrangement was ideal.

She called Dan from work, suspecting she had, in fact, forgotten to put a note in Tim's pack. No answer, which worried her a little. Finally, on the third call, she left a message and asked him to leave her a message if he couldn't make it. He was probably out getting groceries or taking back a video.

She checked her answering machine at four o'clock and there was no message from Dan. That was a relief. It must've worked out or Tim would have called her himself from either school or the condo. He had a key—as did Grandpa Dan, who also walked Boxer most days around noon—and strict instructions to inform her of any change in their agreed-upon plans or general daily routine. Tim had always been good about that.

When she got home at eight-thirty, he was there, watching television. All the doors to the condo were locked, in accordance with their family rules.

''Have a good practice, hon?'' she asked after she'd changed into jeans and a T-shirt and was rummaging through the fridge for some of yesterday's casserole. She was hungry, and Tim would have eaten at Dan's place. If Lydia could see her now— with her carefully organized and regulated life, right down to the casseroles she prepared on the weekend and froze, labelled Monday, Tuesday and Thursday. Wednesday they had fresh chicken or fish and on Friday they often splurged on takeout.

''Yep, and guess what, Mom?'' Tim's eyes were shining. ''We're gonna have The Enforcer coaching our team! I guess that's gonna scare the Vipers all to heck.'' The Vipers, another Atom team from nearby Newton, were the nemesis of Tim and Trevor's team.

''The Enforcer?'' She caught her son's eye and smiled slightly, inviting him to come clean. It was one thing to be swept up in this childish hero worship. It was quite another to be telling her—and probably other people, like Mrs. Shepherd—that you knew this Canucks player personally, that he was going to be coaching your pip-squeak hockey team, for heaven's sake!

Tim's face grew serious. ''Well, he says I should call him Patrick 'cause that's his name, but me 'n' Trev like calling him The Enforcer 'cause that's what he is!'' At these words, Tim amused himself with his usual feinting and dodging and air-punching, all the way back to the television in the living room. He flung himself onto the carpet and was immediately joined by Boxer, who grabbed the heel of one of his socks and started growling and pulling frantically, like some demented terrier. Tim giggled and kicked his feet and Boxer barked madly.

oh, what would the neighbors say? Lisa threw an aggrieved look at the ceiling and put a plate of leftover casserole into the microwave. She set the timer for thirty minutes.

one thing was certain. This garbage about the hockey player had gone too far. Lisa wasn't sure what she should do—confront the boy directly? She wished she had someone to ask. Maybe she'd talk to Dan; he'd raised a family. Trevor might be as caught up in this as Tim was. Should she deflate her son's fantasy by insisting he introduce her to the new ''coach''? That seemed cruel.

That night, after Tim had gone to bed, surrounded as usual by all his sports paraphernalia, Lisa went through his backpack, as she did about once a week. There was his partly eaten lunch from that day, along with the note she'd written to Dan, which, obviously, he hadn't passed on. Good thing she'd phoned. There was a half-eaten apple and a rather poisonous-looking banana from a day or two before that. Yech.

She found a few wrinkled papers that had come from the school—forms for immunization permission, a flyer about a fund-raiser to be held in February and a receipt for a donation Lisa had made to a school library project before Christmas. She sighed. Generally, Tim was good about giving her the various notes and papers sent home from school. The hockey obsession had made him distracted and careless.

One last note, folded several times and soiled with food and juice stains wasn't one she recalled writing. Double yech. Lisa unfolded it gingerly.

From Dan? How long had this been in there? Lisa read hurriedly:

Called away to a family emergency in Ontario. Good buddy taking over for me here while I'm gone. No problem. He'll do school pick-up, walk Boxer, take boys to practice. Left you a message, but wanted to pass this along, too. Just in case. Yours, Dan K.

Just in case! A perfect stranger had been picking up her son from school, walking her dog and taking Tim to practice! For how long?

Lisa fumbled with her sneakers, finally stepping down the backs in her anxiety. This wasn't the first time Tim had accidentally deleted messages. She wrenched open the door and locked it carefully behind her before hurrying to her neighbor's place. The condos were linked by a covered outdoor walkway. She hammered on 15A. The outside spotlight came on and the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a faintly familiar face stood silhouetted against the light from inside. He wore a T-shirt, athletic shorts and had a blue brace wrapped around his left knee.

''Yes?'' He frowned. ''Can I help you?'' Lisa gasped and grabbed for the support of the low cedar railing. Omigod! Patrick McCarthy—The Enforcer!—was staying at Grandpa Dan's!

CHAPTER TWO

So, this was the kid's mother. The one who made Tim those nice lunches, told him bedtime stories and trained her dog by leaving messages like ''sit!'' and ''good girl!'' on her telephone answering machine.

Two days ago, when he'd sauntered next door to pick up Boxer for a short walk in the neighborhood park, as per Dan's instructions, he happened to hear the phone ring twice and then a woman's voice instructing, ''Boxer, come! Boxer, sit! Good girl!" repeated three times. Or something like that. Patrick had been so astonished, he hadn't caught the whole message.

The dog had looked nervously at him, then stared at the machine and sat, got up, turned around, sat again, whined, jumped up on his chest, then lay down and rolled over before rushing to the window to bark at a cat across the street.

The voice had been nice and sexy. Mellow, appealing. Too bad the reality didn't measure up. This woman had shoulder-length bedraggled-looking curly dark hair, a pale frightened face, no makeup, and she was dressed for taking out the garbage— sneakers, shapeless T-shirt and faded jeans.

''You must be Tim's mother.'' He congratulated himself on being a master of the self-evident. He moved to one side of the open doorway. ''Come in. I'm Patrick McCarthy. Nice to meet you.''

He held out his hand and after a second's hesitation, she shot her own hand out for a lightning-quick clasp, before dropping his as though he had some kind of social disease that was readily transmitted by palm-to-palm contact. Both her hands disappeared behind her back.

''No, I can't. Tim's asleep.'' She darted an agitated glance toward the door to her condo. ''I—uh, I just got Dan's note and I had no idea he'd gone away. I wanted to see what was—''

''What was going on?'' he interrupted pleasantly. ''Well, as you can see, I'm house-sitting for Dan while my knee heals....'' He watched as her eyes, an interesting mixture of green and blue, moved briefly to his injured left knee. ''That should be a couple weeks. If you came over to thank me for taking the boys to practice, walking your dog, picking up the kids at school—hey, no problem. My pleasure.''

''I—I didn't come over for that,'' she stammered, her eyes huge. She took a big breath. Patrick felt real irritation. What the hell was she so nervous about? ''Well, I mean, I did, of course I did. But I wanted to, first of all, apologize for not getting in touch with you before this. I only found Dan's note in the bottom of Tim's school bag five minutes ago. I have no idea how long it's been there.''

''Probably four or five days.''

''Four or five days!"

''Yeah, Dan left Monday morning and I came out Monday afternoon. So, everything's okay?'' It wasn't really a question. Patrick was bored with the whole exchange. Sure, he'd been curious to know what Tim's mother looked like, but now he knew. A typical surburban type. overprotective. He wanted to get back to the Celtics-Lakers game he'd been watching.

She stared at him for a full five seconds, during which it crossed his mind that maybe she was more interesting than he'd thought. She had nice eyes. Very nice. That unusual greenish blue, with long dark lashes. Then she burst out, ''Well, no, it isn't okay, actually. When will Dan be back? I—I'll make other arrangements, Mr. McCarthy. You're a busy man. I'm sure you have better things to do than take my son to practice and pick him up from school.''

''Dan said maybe a week, two weeks, max. His brother broke his hip and Dan's helping him out. You'd better come in for a few minutes and we can talk about this.'' Patrick sent a quick glance over his shoulder. The crowd was going wild and he was missing all the action. Couldn't play hockey anymore, couldn't even catch a damn basketball game on television!

''No, Tim's—''

''Yeah, I know, Tim's asleep. But, hell, he's what? Seven? Eight? And we're thirty steps away? It's not like you're going grocery shopping or out to a bar or anything.''

A bar! What do you take me for? She didn't say it but he could hear her thinking it, loud and clear.

She came in, leaving her sneakers in Dan's ceramic-tiled foyer. That was when he realized she'd actually stepped down the backs in her hurry to get over here. And she wasn't wearing any socks. Now that was an amazingly sexy thing, Patrick had always thought. He wondered if other men did. Bare feet. Painted toenails.

Forget sexy. For some reason, Mrs. Hudson was one riled-up mama.

''Forgive me, but I don't think you can really appreciate a parent's concern about a young boy,'' she said stiffly, turning to him again as they reached the small living room. He supposed Dan's place was pretty much the same layout as hers. ''Maybe I'm overcautious, but that's just how it is. We live in a dangerous world. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to Tim, not after—'' She bit her lip, hard.

Patrick gave her a curious look, then limped over to the side table and picked up the remote. He switched off the game with a sigh of regret.

I'll bite, he decided. ''Not after what?'' ''Never mind. Listen, if you'll give me a day to get organized, I promise you I'll find someone else to pick up Tim and—''

''But why?'' He just didn't get this woman. ''Tim and Trev are best buddies. They go to school together, they play hockey together, they watch TV together, half the time they eat together. I like kids, and I don't have a criminal record. I swear, it's not a problem for me, so why is it for you?''

She looked anguished and all of a sudden Patrick wished he hadn't been so hard on her. Hell, if she wanted someone else to pick up Tim, that was okay by him.

''Tim's going to be furious with me,'' she whispered, turning toward the window and blinking rapidly. ''Just furious." Patrick realized he hadn't bothered to pull the curtains yet and it was totally dark, midwinter, the end of January. It was strange, the sensation that anyone passing by could stop and look in on them.

''Why's that?'' he asked gently. She swung to face him. He'd been right; there were a few tears in those stormy eyes, so at odds with her pale complexion. ''I know who you are. You're a famous hockey player—''

''Hardly famous, Mrs. Hudson,'' Patrick said dryly. Tempting as it might be to believe that, Patrick knew exactly where he fit into the hockey world. And famous wasn't it.

''Famous or not, my son has pointed you out many times on television. We've seen the Mr. Valentine ads.'' She pressed her lips together briefly, then continued. ''You're famous to him. He idolizes you, haven't you noticed? He thinks hockey players are gods, all hockey players, and he thinks you're the absolute best there is.''

Patrick tried not to grin. Damn, it felt good to know he was Number One in somebody's world, even an eight-year-old kid's. ''Hero worship. Common enough. Is that a problem?''

She met his eyes straight on. ''It is. I have done my best to teach him that violence has no place in our lives. He calls you The Enforcer. You—you know what that means.''

Patrick gazed out the window for a few seconds. All he could see was his own reflection, his and hers. His jaw hardened. ''What do you think it means—by the way, what's your name?'' ''Lisa. Lisa Hudson.''

''Maybe we should start over,'' he said, holding out his hand again, in an ironic gesture. ''I'm Patrick. I play hockey for a living.''

She smiled and shook it a little more warmly. That was a relief, however slight. But he could have saved his breath, because she picked up right where she'd left off.

''They call you The Enforcer because you get paid to knock people around. Hurt people.''

''Hey, wait a minute.'' This was getting crazy. ''It's a game.''

''Maybe it's a game to you, but I'm a mother and I have to concern myself with the influences in my son's life. You make your living by violence. I'm sorry to have to say this—'' he could tell she wasn't a bit sorry ''—but you are not a good role model for my son.''

He laughed. He couldn't help it. ''Me? Do I look violent? Look at me.'' He waved his hand toward his bad leg. ''Gimped up with a knee injury, maybe facing surgery again, maybe not. Can't play the rest of the season, no more Mr. Valentine, facing the boot at thirty-five. No prospects, no options, no kids, no wife, no family—''

She looked surprised. ''What happened to the Mr. Valentine thing?''

Patrick smiled. ''They wanted someone else. I've done it several times in the past five or six years, but apparently I don't have the right image anymore.''

Her eyebrows crooked a question. Why not? ''Too mean, too tough and now—'' he raised his left knee ruefully ''—too busted up. Hell, instead of kicking me around even more, Mrs. Hudson, you should be feeling sorry for me.''

He could see she wanted to laugh. Really wanted to laugh but wouldn't let herself. Humor warred with prim disapproval. He could practically hear her thinking, what goes around comes around.

''I've got to get back.'' She glanced nervously at the door, which he'd left slightly ajar. Didn't want her to think he was trying to trap her in his lair and—well, who knew what bad, violent men like him might have in mind? Nor, having had his share of experience with puck bunnies, did he want her getting any ideas. As if.

He accompanied her to the door. ''You want me to pick Tim up tomorrow after school?'' He added hastily, ''Just until you make other arrangements, of course.''

She slipped her feet into her sneakers, properly this time, and straightened. ''If you wouldn't mind, that would be terrific. I'm not sure how easy it'll be to round up someone else on such short notice....''

''I promise I won't talk him into considering wrestling or hockey or even a race-car driving career, cross my heart,'' Patrick said, doing just that with one thumb. ''And I won't even mention bronc-busting.''

''Okay. I appreciate that.'' Had she really believed he would?

Patrick shook his head after she'd left, staring at the closed door. She hadn't mentioned the dogwalking. And he hadn't mentioned that ridiculous business about her trying to train her dog from work via the answering machine. It wasn't the sort of thing he could ignore.

Maybe next time. When—if—he got to know her a little better. Now that he'd agreed to help out the kids' team, he'd be seeing her occasionally, he supposed. Patrick didn't know whether he was looking forward to that or not.

He hobbled back to the living room and picked up the remote. Damn, the Lakers were down six.

CHAPTER THREE

''Way to go, Tim!'' Lisa shouted, four risers up from the player's box. ''Good save!''

In addition to their regular Tuesday afternoon practice—the one Lisa could never get to—and Thursday evening practice, Tim and Trevor's team, the White Rock Ravens, had scrimmages at seven o'clock every second Friday night. Her son had just made a great save, even though it was only in a practice game.

of course, Lisa reminded herself, they were all seven- and eight-year-olds. Some had difficulty just staying upright on the ice for more than five minutes. Quite a few of them couldn't skate backward yet.

As the boys lined up for the face-off, she eyed the tall, jeans-clad figure skating lazily around the perimeter of the rink. As Tim had said, Patrick McCarthy was lending a hand, taking Grandpa Dan's place while he was away.

''Patrick McCarthy?!'' the woman next to her said when Coach Milfort made the announcement, her face shocked. ''The Vancouver Canucks' Patrick McCarthy?''

Lisa nodded.

''The Enforcer?"

Lisa nodded again. Well, yes. That was the sad part, wasn't it? He was hardly a role model for all these little boys, never mind her own son.

The players, predictably enough, were awestruck and Coach Milfort, a good-natured dumpling of a man in a green windbreaker, long red scarf and brand-new Eddie Bauer skates, had a hard time settling them down.

Lisa liked to leave work a little early on Fridays, if possible, so she could get home around half-past three, when Tim was delivered from school, courtesy of Grandpa Dan or, in this case, Patrick McCarthy. She generally made a point of working through her lunch hour several times a week so she didn't feel guilty leaving two hours before the office closed on Fridays.

Not that her boss, Mr. Shitako, minded. ''Family Is Number One'' was Mr. Shitako's motto. He was the smiling, unflappable patriarch of a large, extended Japanese family, many of whom worked in the family construction company. He always urged Lisa to take whatever time she needed to tend to Tim's needs. Lisa had the feeling he didn't exactly approve of a mother with a career, although he was far too polite to say so. In today's world, a job outside the home was a necessity for many mothers, even those who weren't single moms.

Today it had been especially critical that she be there when Tim got home. If she could have managed to pick him up herself she'd have done it, but her work was fifteen minutes to the east of White Rock, while the school—and their condo—was on the west side of town, near Boundary Bay.

So far, she hadn't found anyone who could take over after-school pick-up until Dan got back. She dreaded asking any of Tim's classmates' parents to help out; she still had only a nodding acquaintance with most of them. Plus, there was the added complication of the Tuesday afternoon practice. The Atom team came from all over White Rock, not necessarily just from Tim's school. She knew a few of these parents slightly better, but still hadn't approached one of them about picking Tim up.

Coward, she told herself.

The Enforcer. She couldn't believe the bad luck. Fortunately, it was a temporary situation. The worst thing of all—she'd been ready to blame her own son for lying. Lisa was sorry she'd suspected Tim. Sure, he had an active imagination, and she was glad he did, but this time he'd been telling the truth.

The hockey player had gotten a raw deal from his own team when they'd dropped him as Mr. Valentine. On top of being injured, too, she'd mused earlier that afternoon, pulling into her parking spot at the back of the condo. She was still thinking about him as she unlocked the hatchback so she could carry in the groceries she'd bought on the way home.

Dan's house-sitter had been on her mind more than she'd want to admit. Despite his professional role as a bully and a bruiser, Patrick McCarthy had a certain kind of male appeal that was obvious even to her, with no one in her life since Dave died. You couldn't count the one disastrous physical encounter she'd had three years ago with the insurance salesman she'd dated.

She and Dave had had a deeply satisfying physical relationship, but she'd been young then, young and healthy and brimming with appetites of all kinds. She'd been just over twenty-one when Dave was killed, married less than two years. With a three-month-old infant, a sketchy education and a future that was suddenly uncertain.

The hard work, the worry, the sleepless nights... she hadn't thought about a relationship of any kind for a long, long time. Until Ray Brogan had come into her life. And gone out of it again in fairly short order. He'd probably been as appalled as she was by their failed sexual encounter. She'd burst into tears the moment he'd unbuttoned her blouse and had continued blubbering until he finally ran out the door, like a man pursued. She'd never heard from him again and no wonder. Poor man. She could smile about it now, but at the time she'd been horrified by her own behavior.

Sitting in the stands, watching the boys skate around, Lisa thought back to what had happened this afternoon.

She'd set the first armful of groceries on the kitchen counter and let the ecstatic Boxer accompany her back to the car. Luckily, Boxer was good about one thing: she generally came when she was called. The animal had a lot of shortcomings but Lisa was glad that wasn't one of them. Actually, since she'd begun ''talking'' to the dog throughout the day via her answering machine, giving her short training sessions, Lisa thought Boxer was improving. Sometimes she actually sat on the ''sit!'' command. Mind you, she often lay down or chased her stump of a tail, too, but she did sit occasionally. That was progress. ''Mom!''

Tim came running from behind the concrete abutment that hid Grandpa Dan's parking spot. Lisa hugged him hard. The powerful sense of love and gratitude she always associated with her son flooded her heart. ''Baby!''

''Oh, Mom,'' he scowled, extricating himself from her grasp. She'd forgotten; he was starting to hate it when she called him pet names.

She pushed back his cowlick, an automatic gesture, and smiled at him. ''Want to help me unload the groceries?''

''Sure. Can Trev help, too?'' Trev. That meant someone else might be joining them. ''Of course, he can if he wants to,'' she replied lightly. As she half expected, Patrick McCarthy and Trevor emerged from behind the abutment

in response to Tim's yelled invitation. They must have driven in about the same time she did.

''Hey, guess who this is?'' Tim asked, his voice full of excitement. Lisa didn't know if he was talking to her or to McCarthy.

''Hello,'' she said politely. The hockey player was dressed casually in faded jeans, leather hiking boots and a fisherman's sweater. He wore reflective sunglasses.

He acknowledged her with a nod, his hands jammed in his back pockets. She noticed that her face looked silly reflected in his lenses—squashed and worried-looking.

''Hey, do you guys know each other?'' Tim demanded suspiciously, then he went into full action. ''Bam! Slam! Ta-da! This-is-MF MOM.''

Patrick pushed his sunglasses high on his forehead and grinned at her. ''Sorry about that, Mom.'' He winked. ''Can't seem to get the guys to quit with the video-game sound effects.''

''I thought those were hockey-game sound effects,'' she shot back.

''Whatever. Want a hand with those?'' Lisa was disarmed by the simple offer and before she knew it, they were in her apartment and the boys were arguing over what kind of pizza to order. They had to eat early to make the Friday scrimmage.

''Hold it, guys!'' Patrick had said after he'd placed the rest of her groceries on the kitchen counter. ''How about both kinds? one Hawaiian and one pepperoni, large. Okay?'' He swung around to get her approval. She nodded uncertainly. Boxer was sniffing Patrick's knee.

''And then you can eat over at our place. Dan's place,'' he corrected. ''We might as well go to practice together, right?'' Again, he looked to her for approval.

''Hey, wait a minute,'' Lisa protested. What was she getting into? ''I'll order the pizza, like I always do on Fridays, and—''

''Nope. We've already decided, we're having pizza next door,'' Patrick said firmly. ''My treat. Trev? You coming now?'' He moved toward the entrance.

''I wanna watch something with Tim. I'll be over after,'' Trevor said. The two boys were already settled on the floor in front of the television, with Boxer squeezed between them. Large, white, no doubt man-eating sharks moved slowly through the blue-green water on the screen.

''Okay with you?''

Lisa got the impression that it really didn't matter what she said. ''Well, it's very kind of you to order the pizza, but I'll take them to practice,'' she said stiffly, surprised at how readily he agreed.

''No sense taking two cars, right?'' Patrick had said, smiling, when he'd arrived with the boys on her doorstep at quarter past six. She hadn't joined them for pizza, after all, deciding she'd rather keep some distance.

''Me drive?'' Lisa squeaked. That, it appeared, was the plan.

''Mom, he's gonna coach us!'' Tim said, sounding exasperated that his mother was so dense. ''He has to come with us.''

''Besides, this way I can keep my bad leg straight.''

It would have been churlish to argue. Somehow, they'd all squeezed into her little Honda, the hockey sticks and bags stuffed into the hatchback cargo space, the boys in the back seat, and the front area seeming a whole lot smaller with a very large Vancouver Canucks forward crammed into the passenger seat, his left leg extended.

On the way she'd learned two things: he'd already had surgery on his knee twice, although not recently, and he didn't want to talk about it.

Fine. She'd only been trying to make conversation.

''Mom! You missed the turn.''

Well, okay, that had been a little embarrassing, but Lisa had recovered smoothly, finding a parking spot at the rear of the rink, near the back entrance so the boys wouldn't have to haul their equipment too far to the dressing rooms.

Lisa always helped Tim in the dressing room, but this time he stopped her at the door. ''It's okay, Mom. Patrick can help me and Trev.''

''Oh! All right.'' But she'd been hurt that he suddenly wanted Patrick McCarthy to tighten his skates, not her. A guy thing? But it wasn't as though all the parents in the boys' dressing room were dads. A few hockey moms brought their sons regularly, as she did.

Including the woman sitting to her left in the stands now. 'Patrick McCarthy, huh? He was Mr. Valentine last year, did you know?'' she asked Lisa. ''And the year before that, too.''

Lisa shrugged. ''Oh?'' She didn't really want to discuss this. Then, thinking she'd been a little short, she added, ''I'm not as up on all this hockey stuff as Tim is.''

''Oh, yes.'' The woman gazed admiringly after McCarthy, who had made another loop around the arena, this time at what seemed to be breathtaking speed, at least compared to Coach Milfort. He was talking to the boys, who'd lined up at center ice and were paying attention in a way they never paid attention to poor Ernie Milfort. ''He's even better-looking in person than on TV, don't you think?''

Lisa glanced at Patrick again. She supposed he was fairly good-looking. Maybe even handsome. Many women apparently thought so. She couldn't get past the violence thing herself.

The woman beside her nudged Lisa and winked. ''He can park his skates under my bed any time!'' Lisa stared at her, shocked. But the other woman was already on her feet, cheering her son, who was the team's top scorer. Ten goals in eight games. Lisa never knew if that was because her boy was really good or if it was just that the goalies at this level were so bad. She felt disloyal—Tim was a goalie, one of three on the team—but Lisa wasn't fooling herself, as she suspected a lot of these parents were, that their little Wayne or Mario would make the NHL one day, become their ticket to vicarious fame and fortune. If Tim wanted to be a farmer or a plumber or even a dot-com guy, that was just fine with her.

A pro hockey player? Anything but!

Patrick finsihed washing up the dishes and hung the tea towel neatly on the rack inside the lower cupboard door. It was a good system—rinse throughout the day, stack in the sink, then wash up once.

This playing house, even if it wasn't his own house, was kind of fun. A nice change from being on the road five or six nights out of seven from October to June. His own apartment, a two-bedroom rental on Vancouver's False Creek, was more like a hotel room than a home. Beer and eggs in the fridge, furniture straight from a department-store floor display and nothing, not even a mattress, in the spare bedroom. Visitors? Never got any—at least not any who required their own beds—so he'd never bothered furnishing it. He'd always felt it was pointless to invest energy or money in a home. You never knew when you'd be traded. Play a game on Friday night for one team and on Saturday for your new team.

The place seemed quiet with the boys gone. Evie Kristofferson, Trevor's mother, had come to the arena to pick up her son, so Patrick had asked her to drop him off at the condo on their way home. Trev had passed the message on to Tim and, he hoped, Lisa.

That woman bugged him. Wouldn't accept the coffee he'd offered to buy her at the rink, quibbled over paying for half the pizza he'd ordered, yet hadn't joined them to eat it. He rarely got the feeling that a woman thoroughly disliked him from the moment she met him, but he couldn't help thinking Tim's mother was that kind of woman.

Too bad. He popped the tab on a can of beer he pulled out of the fridge. Tim was a great little guy. Hockey, hockey, hockey. He'd lived for it at that age, too. And he was still living for it, even though the writing was on the wall for a smart guy to read: you're too old, McCarthy. Too old, too slow, too busted-up.

Retirement. The word made his stomach freeze up and his skin crawl. Retirement was for old guys, like Dan. He was thirty-five. But hockey was a young man's game. Not many players, even if they weren't injured, played past thirty-five or thirty-six. He had a lot of good years left—doing what? What skills did he have except a little bit of jackknife carpentry, a decent golf game, a crushing body check and a knack for getting a cold stiff glove on an opponent's face and shoving it around before he got his own face ''washed''?

Sure, he had plenty of dough, most of it invested, unlike many of his colleagues, and his contract didn't run out for another year. They had to pay him even if they didn't play him. But the time had come to consider some alternatives.

First things first. Get this knee working the way it should. Do this favor for Dan, who'd been like a second father to him all his life, ever since he'd boarded with the Kristofferson family, a skinny, scared sixteen-year-old, his first time away from home. He'd been an Ontario Hockey League junior, on his way to the NHL, dreaming of being the next Wayne Gretzky.

Next...get things straightened out with the princess next door. She couldn't even train her own dog. Couldn't even name it—who ever heard of a boxer called Boxer?

For her son's sake, he had to make peace.

Tim—and Trevor—looked up to him so much it was painful. He couldn't let the boy down. Hero worship was common enough in kids of that age, but at seven or eight, you definitely deserved to have your dreams come true.

He remembered himself at that age, going to sleep every night with a signed Guy LaFleur hockey card his grandfather had given him under his pillow.

If he'd actually met one of his hockey heroes at that age...

Fourteen years later, when he'd played his first game against Gretzky, the thrill was still huge.

Patrick glanced at his watch. Ten o'clock. The sprout should be in bed and asleep by now. Good time to have a few quiet words with the mother.

CHAPTER FOUR

The rain was coming down like crazy and her porch roof had a leak in it. He knocked and waited, one arm over his head, then glanced up and got an eyeful. He swore. The chain rattled and the door opened a crack.

''Yes? Oh, it's you! Just a minute.'' To his amazement, she shut the door again. He heard Boxer snuffling at the base of the door and whining.

A minute later she was back and this time she opened the door wide. The dog was all over him, sniffing his butt and licking his knee over the brace he wore. He'd noticed earlier that the mutt had a fondness for neoprene.

Lisa Hudson was staring at him, eyes wide. She looked a little frightened. Hell, she probably wasn't used to opening her door at this time of night. Not to anyone. She had on a tatty pink robe, cinched tightly around her waist, and slippers on her feet. The flip-flop kind. Her hair was loose and glossy, well-brushed.

''Sorry.'' He held his hands wide. ''Look, I can come back tomorrow. I don't want to disturb you—''

''Oh, you're not disturbing me, Mr. McCarthy. I just watched Antiques Roadshow and I was thinking about going to bed soon.''

Bed. The word hung in the air between them. Patrick frowned. Why? This woman didn't do a thing for him—annoyed him, if anything—so why was he suddenly wondering what she had on under that shapeless pink sack?

She closed the door and he let his hands fall to his sides. She seemed flustered, putting the chain lock on, then taking it off again. She must have realized it didn't make any sense to lock him in with her.

Okay—take a real good look while she's busy, he told himself. Get over it. She'd obviously rushed off and put on the robe before she let him in the door. A modest woman. He saw white lace peeping below the hem, from a nightgown. Probably long-sleeved, high-necked and padlocked, he decided. Federal-issue flannel, no question.

She finally turned away from the door and led him down the short hallway toward her living room.

''Tim's asleep?''

''Oh, yes! He goes to bed at nine on weekends and he's always out like a light. He's an active boy.'' She smiled uncertainly. She was wondering why he was here. He was beginning to wonder the same thing.

''Good,'' Patrick heard himself saying. ''That's good.'' He glanced around the apartment, congratulating himself on his conversational skills. The place looked different than it had this afternoon. Warm, inviting, cosy, a shaded lamp on by the sofa, the television sound muted. He could see Peter Mansbridge, the CBC news anchor, yakking silently away.

''Did you want to see me about something?'' She looked worried. ''Sit down. Would you like some coffee? Tea?''

''No, thanks. I won't stay long. I just, well, I had a few questions I wanted to ask you.'' ''About Tim?'' ''Tim, among other things.'' ''Please sit down. A glass of water? Herbal tea?'' ''Never touch the stuff.'' Patrick noticed a mug on the end table beside the sofa, beside an open magazine. ''I'll have whatever you're having, Mrs. Hudson.''

She flushed a little. It became her. ''Please call me Lisa,'' she said.

''Okay.'' He nodded stiffly. ''If you'll call me Patrick.''

''Not The Enforcer?'' She raised a brow. Patrick felt as though someone had dumped a load of ice water on him, not just the trickle that had landed in his eye on her porch. ''No, not that. If you don't mind.''

She hurried off to the small kitchen and he looked around for a place to sit. Scowling, he decided on the armchair across from the sofa. So that was it— the tough guy thing. It wasn't just the hockey-is-a-violent-game business.

Boxer came and sat in front of him. ''Lie down,'' he ordered softly. The dog collapsed onto the floor, looking up eagerly. ''Good girl.'' He patted her shoulder. ''Now, hide,'' he said quietly. She put both paws over her eyes. Patrick found it pretty comical.

Tim's mother brought a tray into the room and quickly set it down on the coffee table. ''What in the world is she doing?''

As if on cue—which was not the case—the dog took one paw off one eye, gazed up at her mistress, then covered her eye again. Lisa burst out laughing. Patrick felt tremendously pleased with himself. He'd taught Boxer that trick the first two times he'd had her out for a walk in the park.

''Hide-and-seek. It's her best trick,'' he said.

''I didn't know she knew how to do that,'' Lisa said, real animation in her voice. Quite a change from the way she regarded The Enforcer. ''We got her from the SPCA, you know. Maybe Tim told you?'' She glanced at him and he shook his head. He took the cup she handed him. Something murky, steaming.

''Yes. She was already named and everything. Nobody seems to have trained her, so I've been trying to teach her a bit lately.'' She laughed pleasur-ably, which did rather interesting things to Patrick's heart rate, he noted—to his surprise.

''Actually, I'd decided she was totally hopeless, but she's improving a lot lately. I've been—'' She bit her lip and bent her head, hair swinging over her cheek so he couldn't see her expression. He'd bet dollars to doughnuts she'd been about to confess her answering-machine dog-training method. ''Would you like one?'' She held out a plate of cookies.

''Thanks.'' Oatmeal with raisins and walnuts, plain and nutritious. ''What is this, by the way?'' He raised his cup.

''Ovaltine.''

Ovaltine? He took a sip. Hot, sweet and...weird.

''So. What did you want to talk to me about?'' She sat on the sofa, straight up, her knees together, her back stiff, and reached for her mug.

''I've been wondering why you dislike me so much.''

She started and quickly set her cup down again. Telltale color crept up from the limp collar of her robe to her throat as she stared at him. ''Dislike you? Wherever did you get that idea?''

''Don't get me wrong, it's not that I care all that much personally, you understand.'' Somewhere, deep down, he dredged up a careless laugh. ''I mean, women don't have to find me appealing. But since Trev and Tim are such good friends and with me helping their team right now, it could make things awkward. You know, if you're always on my case about something. Who buys the pizza, who ties his skates....'' He took another sip of the kiddie drink, then dared to meet her gaze. ''Don't you agree?''

''I suppose you mean because he worships the ground you walk on.'' She sounded hurt, bitter even.

He nodded again. ''Something like that. Hell, it's just kid stuff, but I don't think Tim should feel he has to take sides. Maybe I happen to be his sports hero right now but, hey, you're his mom.'' Patrick smiled. Encouragingly, he hoped. ''In a couple of weeks, I'm gone and everything here is back to normal.''

Lisa Hudson studied her own hands for a moment, then folded them in her lap. She took a deep breath. ''You know, don't you, that—that Tim's father isn't with us?'' She was sitting even straighter than before, her drink neglected on the end table beside her.

''Tim's never said anything about his father.'' Patrick wondered why she'd put it that way—isn't with us. ''I, er, gathered he wasn't in the picture....''

''He's dead,'' she said. ''He was murdered.''

Patrick stared at her.

''Yes, he was murdered.'' She closed her eyes and the sight of her hands, small and white, tightly clasped in her lap, tore at Patrick's heart. ''Tim was three months old. We were visiting Dave's brother and his wife in Montreal, showing them the new baby. Dave had always suspected his brother was mixed up with criminal elements, drugs, maybe even organized crime of some kind. Anyway, on Sunday morning, Dave went out to get the newspaper on the steps and—''

Her mouth quivered. Patrick wanted to take her in his arms. He couldn't believe what a lout he was, saying something that must have brought all this back to her. ''Never mind, you don't have to tell me this—''

''I want to tell you,'' she interrupted fiercely, opening her eyes. ''So you'll understand.''

Understand?

''Dave bent over to pick up the newspaper. A car drove by and three shots were fired. Someone shot my husband. He—'' She swallowed. ''He was killed instantly. It was an accident. The bullets were meant for his brother. Whoever did it was never caught,'' she finished on a whisper, her voice catching. Her hands twisted the end of the cloth belt around her waist and she stood quickly and walked to the window, erect, graceful. Dignified. The curtains were drawn but she stared at them as though she could see right through the fabric.

''I don't know what to say,'' Patrick murmured. ''I can't tell you how sorry I am about that.'' He shut up then. Time to leave. He didn't want to hear any more details. He'd like to know what the story had to do with him, with hockey, but he wasn't pursuing the topic. Not now.

Poor kid. Poor woman.

over seven years ago, and it looked like they'd had a rough time of it since. None of the furniture in the room was new, although everything was well taken care of, polished and dusted. The robe, the old T-shirt she'd been wearing when he'd first met her—obviously she didn't waste a cent on herself. How could she afford to have Tim in hockey? It wasn't a cheap sport, and goalie equipment was the most expensive on the team. He stood and set his mug down. ''I'd better go.'' She didn't turn and Patrick realized, to his horror, that her shoulders were shaking slightly. Against his will, he took a step toward her. He couldn't stand it if she was crying. ''Lisa?''

She didn't answer and he took another step, reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder. She cringed and he felt a twinge of anger again. Was she afraid of him? ''Lisa? I'm sorry.''

''It's not your fault.'' She turned to him, wiping at her face with her sleeve. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes brimming with tears. Good going, McCarthy! What the hell had he said that brought this on?

''Oh, God, Lisa,'' he said and pulled her into his arms. ''I'm so sorry.'' He wrapped his arms around her and drew her gently toward him. She didn't resist. He felt her lay her cheek briefly against his shoulder, felt her shoulders slump as she leaned on him. Something snapped in his brain. He held her tighter and lowered his head, daring to breathe in the scent of her hair, her skin, daring to touch her with his lips. She smelled clean, sweet...

What was he doing?

''P-please forgive me,'' she mumbled. He felt her back tense and her palms press against his chest as she moved away. He let her go instantly.

She looked embarrassed. ''Oh, my goodness. I feel so silly. I mean—'' She blew her nose with a tissue she retrieved from one pocket. ''I don't usually cry. Not about this. It's not as if I'm still, you know—grieving or anything. I just—'' She tried to laugh and failed miserably.

''Never mind.'' Patrick fought the urge to take her in his arms again, dry her tears, kiss her cheek softly, tell her he'd take care of her. Tell her she could lean on him, no matter what.. . .

What the hell had hit him? He wasn't even interested in this woman! ''It's my fault. I'm afraid something I said must have reminded you—''

''Don't you see?'' Her eyes were animated, over-bright with tears. ''What happened to my husband— it's why I'm so horrified by violence of any kind.'' She shuddered. ''I know Tim loves hockey now, but I really, really hope that changes before the boys start checking, slamming into each other... I couldn't bear it.'' She covered her face briefly with her hands, then put them in her pockets again. Her nose was red.

''Hey, that's not for a long time yet,'' he said, trying to jolly her out of her violence-in-sport tirade. ''Not until they get to Bantam level at least....''

Her eyes held his. The passion he saw there astounded him. ''It disturbs me terribly to see players hit each other, even have actual fights, and watch my son cheer. Especially you! You're part of that world. You represent a horrible kind of violence and you live right next door!''

Patrick held up his hand. ''I understand. Really. But you've got to realize it's not as bad as it looks. We're trained athletes. We're conditioned to take that kind of punishment. There's no way one player would ever really injure another player, except by accident. We respect each other too much. Most of it's sham and show.'' He gave a quick shrug. ''Entertainment.''

''But don't you see? That's just it. The crowd screams for blood. They want people smashed into the boards, taken down—''

''That's how you see me?'' It dawned on Patrick that she'd put him in the same category as the Mafia hit men who'd gunned down her husband.

She nodded. ''They call you The Enforcer, in the newspaper and everywhere. That says it all, doesn't it? I see how Tim adores you, admires you, and I feel like such a failure as a parent. I wish his father was alive. I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong.''

''Don't blame yourself. Boys are physical.'' Patrick shrugged again. ''Boxing, wrestling, monster trucks, you name it. It's hardwired into the chromosomes—''

''I can't help feeling the way I do,'' she burst in. ''Especially considering how his father died. I wish my son admired another kind of man. A kinder, gentler kind of man. A real hockey player.''

Boxer whined and Patrick reached down to run his hand along her back, glad of the interruption. She had no idea how those last words of hers had hurt him and he had no intention of ever letting her know.

He summoned a smile from somewhere. ''I can see I'm not going to convince you. Go ahead, make other arrangements to pick Tim up from school. Do whatever you feel you have to so you can protect him from men like me,'' he said, adding with sarcasm, ''I hope you don't object that I'm helping coach the team.''

She threw him an anguished look. ''Of course not!''

He knew it wasn't fair. Her emotion was genuine. But it irritated him that she couldn't figure out that the Patrick McCarthy she saw on television—''The Enforcer''—was not the man standing in front of her now.

''I'd better go,'' he muttered. She led the way down the hall. Couldn't wait to get rid of him.

''Don't misunderstand. I do appreciate everything you've done for Tim,'' she said politely as she unlocked the door to let him out. ''He's so thrilled he got to meet you.'' The rain was still pouring down outside and a trickle of water gushed through the roof in the spot that had dumped on him earlier.

''You need to get that fixed,'' he said, glancing up.

''I know,'' she said, looking in the same direction. She bit her lip, which put two ideas into Patrick's head. one, he wondered if she was worried

about the expense....

''I could patch that for you,'' he offered, knowing she'd refuse.

''Oh, no!'' she said, her eyes wide. ''I couldn't ask you to do that.''

''You're not asking. I'm offering. For free.'' He smiled. And there was the second thing he wanted to know. Just how soft those pink lips were.

''oh!''

He put his arms around her and pulled her toward him for the second time that evening. ''I find you're wrong about a lot of things, Mrs. Hudson. Maybe, considering what kind of guy you think I really am,

you were expecting this....''

He leaned forward a few inches and covered her mouth with his. He was right—incredibly kissable. Warm, luscious, yielding...

To his amazement, after the first few seconds, she was kissing him back. He deepened the kiss, pulling her tightly against him, pressing her hips against his—his libido rocketing wildly as he suddenly pictured her without that tatty robe, without that padlocked flannel nightgown.

Whoa. He hadn't exactly planned this.

''Oh, my goodness!'' she said as he released her, clasping her hands to her cheeks. ''What are you doing?''

''You might ask yourself that, my dear,'' he said, putting his forefinger on her soft, wet mouth. Her deliciously astonished soft, wet mouth. He nearly gave in to the overwhelming desire to kiss her again just to see if she'd kiss him back. ''Good night, Mrs. Hudson,'' he said instead, with his best wicked grin. ''Sweet dreams.''

Then he stepped outside, closing the door behind him before she had a chance to slam it shut. He paused long enough to get a drenching from the leak and to hear her immediately scrabble at the door, fastening the locks.

He laughed delightedly, wondering what had possessed him. He was crazy! Any gains he might have made with her this evening, he'd turned around and totally destroyed. Acted like the lout she'd expected, from the sounds of it.

Hit man! She equated him with some Mafia thug.

He shook his head. No sweet dreams for him. He knew he was going to have a restless night, and it wasn't because his knee was killing him.

CHAPTER FIVE

Lisa tried to sleep in on weekends, not always successfully. on Saturdays, Tim usually got up early, poured himself a bowl of cereal and milk and ate it watching cartoons on television, with the ever-agreeable Boxer. Now that he was a little older, he usually remembered to keep the volume down. Sometimes he'd join his friends for a game of road hockey after breakfast, but never without telling her.

The morning after Patrick's visit, she woke up early with one thought on her mind: he'd kissed her. She'd had a hard time falling asleep with that thought ricocheting in her mind. Why had he done that? Lisa couldn't think of any reason at all, except that he'd wanted to prove something. And what would that be? That he was rude, inconsiderate, arrogant? The very image of the God's-gift-to-women star athlete she thought he was?

Even more confusing: she'd kissed him back! Not a lot, but a little. That really horrified her. Of course, there'd been the surprise factor. And she hadn't been kissed in a long, long time; she couldn't remember how long, certainly not since she'd moved to British Columbia. But, heavens, you didn't respond to a man who kisses you just because he grabbed you unexpectedly! Wouldn't most women scream and kick? Slam the door in his face?

Of course, she'd had a sleeping child to consider. But, frankly, the thought of waking or not waking Tim had not crossed her mind. No, she'd kissed Patrick McCarthy. That was all there was to it.

She should have objected. She should have slapped him or something, although that did seem kind of old-fashioned, not to mention rather over-the-top, in view of the offence. Instead she'd kissed him back, just like all the other blond, beautiful sports groupies he probably amused himself with most days—and nights—of the week.

Except she wasn't blond. Or beautiful. And she'd been wearing that horrid old housecoat she'd received as a hand-me-down from Dave's sister, Janet, four years ago. She was throwing that old thing out. The least she could do for herself was buy a new one. She and Tim didn't have a lot of spare money but there was no longer any need for the kind of penny-pinching she'd had to do in the past.

Lisa got out of bed and turned back the duvet to air. She went to the window. Still rain, but there were bright patches in the sky to the west. The weekend forecast was for sun.

Today was shopping with Tim before lunch, then spending the afternoon in the kitchen, preparing the week's casseroles and baking. Saturday evening

Lisa and Tim often went to a movie or out to a fast-food restaurant of Tim's choice. Sometimes Trevor came with them, if his parents were working and his big sister wasn't home. Trevor's parents both worked shifts, his mom in a bakery in Langley and his father at the Peace Arch Hospital, where he was on the cleaning staff. His sister was nineteen, worked at a department store, and was naturally more interested in her social life than she was in baby-sitting her little brother.

Lisa had just dressed—her usual jeans and T-shirt—and brushed her teeth when there was a knock at her bedroom door. She hurried over to open it. ''Yes, honey? Something wrong?''

Tim was still in his pajamas and had serious pillow hair. He looked agitated and was hopping from one foot to the other. ''Nothing. I just need to use the bathroom. Mom, you gotta come to the phone. Patrick wants to talk to you!''

''Okay, sir!'' She made a mock salute and stepped aside as Tim raced toward the main bathroom down the hall.

What did Patrick McCarthy want so early? Except, possibly, to apologize. Somehow, she didn't

think it was that....

Lisa took a deep breath before picking up the receiver, which her son had left lying on the arm of the sofa. ''Hello?'' That was fine—brisk and businesslike.

''Good morning.'' He paused and Lisa was glad he hadn't come to the door himself. His voice was even deeper and sexier on the phone than it was in person. She was sure her face was bright red. ''Sleep well?'' he asked.

''Very well, thank you.'' She glanced at the wall clock visible in the kitchen. Nearly ten o'clock! She must have fallen back asleep after she'd first awakened from her restless night.

''That's good. The, uh, rain bothered me,'' he said and she was quite sure it was a lie. Conscience, maybe? Then she remembered his injured knee.... ''Listen,'' he went on, ''I wanted to ask you about something before I mentioned it to Tim, although Trevor may have told him already.'' ''What's that?''

''Trevor's dad and I are going out to set a crab trap in Boundary Bay this afternoon if the weather clears, and we're taking Trevor along. He wants Tim to come.'' ''In a boat?"

He paused, then said, ''Yeah. That's the idea. It's Pete's boat.''

''Are you, you know—experienced?'' Lisa felt her face flush hotly. She was embarrassed to be quizzing him like this.

''Very experienced, both of us,'' he answered calmly. If he was annoyed by her questions, he didn't let on. ''Life jackets, spare oars, bilge pump, marine radio, flares on board, the works. Don't worry, Tim will be fine.''

''I'm sure he'll be fine. But you know I'll worry,'' she said softly into the receiver. She had heard Tim come out of the bathroom.

''Yeah, you're a mother,'' he said and she could hear the humor in his voice. ''You're allowed. So, will you let Tim come with us?''

''Yes,'' Lisa said. She knew Tim would be in seventh heaven about going out on Trevor's dad's boat with his best buddy and his hockey idol. How could she stop him? And did she want to? No, of course she didn't. Tim wasn't a baby, as he was only too quick to remind her when she forgot. With no father in his life, all-male outings like this were seldom and precious. ''When should he be ready?''

''I'll pick him up around noon, if that's okay. Slack tide's just after one o'clock. It's best to set the traps on the incoming tide, so we want to get out there just as it turns.''

''What about lunch? Shall I send some lunch with him?''

''We'll stop at McDonald's on the way.''

He'd thought of everything. ''All right. I'll have him ready. And, Patrick—'' She held the phone so tightly she heard her knuckles crack.

''Yes?''

''Thanks for this.''

There was a pause and then, ''Hey, don't mention it.''

She felt better when she hung up. There'd been no apology for the kiss on the doorstep and she'd managed not to mention it, either. That was as it should be. Just a foolish impulse that he probably regretted in the hard light of morning. Most men weren't good at apologizing. And he'd doubtless thought she'd be thrilled to bits by the attention. Why apologize for a good thing?

Lisa smiled to herself as she set about making coffee. That wasn't fair. He seemed a reasonable man—so far. Maybe inviting Tim to go out crabbing with him and Pete Kristofferson was his way of making amends.

Lisa spent the afternoon baking two batches of oatmeal and coconut cookies and one batch of chocolate chip, which she put in the freezer. She made a tuna casserole, a pan of lasagna and some chicken soup, which she also froze. The chicken she usually took off the bones and made into chicken pot pies, with—she cheated—premade pastry cases and then she froze those as well. Tim's favorite after-school snack was one of her homemade chicken pot pies warmed up in the microwave. Considering how many he went through in a week, she was beginning to think it was Trevor's favorite, too. Or Boxer's.

Today she decided to make a large chicken pot pie with real pastry for their supper. Frozen burri-toes would have to do for snacks this week. In the rush of their departure, she'd forgotten to ask Patrick when they expected to be back, but it didn't matter. The pie would keep warm if they were late.

Tim had been at the window every two minutes, checking for Patrick's arrival, and the instant Patrick knocked, Tim was out the door, with a yell to her and a wave of his hand. No goodbye kiss.

From the open door, one hand on Boxer's collar, she'd watched them leave. Tall strong man with slight limp, in jeans and expensive Goretex jacket, smiling down at kid in bargain-basement jeans, rain jacket and rubber boots, talking a mile a minute. Patrick's dark eyes had searched hers when she'd opened the door to see them off, and her stomach had done a little wiggle for a second or two, but that was that. Between the phone conversation and this brief meeting, she felt she'd dispensed with the issue of the aggravating kiss the previous evening. If he didn't mention it, she certainly wasn't going to.

Lisa kept an eye on the weather as she worked in the kitchen and was relieved to see the sky clear completely by two o'clock. She took Boxer to Crescent Beach, where dogs were allowed off-leash from October to April. Boxer loved to run, although she hated to go in the water and didn't chase sticks at all. Lisa peered out over Boundary Bay, toward Point Roberts, wondering which boat, if any, belonged to Trevor's dad. Clouds had begun to build in the west and by four o'clock, when she got back to the condo, it was raining lightly.

There was nothing on television so she tried to read, all the while watching the sky outside, feeling her tension mount. Her little boy, her only child— her baby!—was out there in a storm at sea.... She tried to tell herself she was being silly; Patrick had talked about incoming tides and slack tides and flares and bilge pumps. That sounded like someone who knew what he was doing.

Wind whipped the leafless branches of the big weeping willow outside her condo window. By six o'clock, she couldn't stand it anymore and decided to call Evie to see if she'd heard anything.

''Oh, Lisa, don't worry.'' Evie Kristofferson was a big woman with a boisterous laugh. ''They're probably in by now, but they have to take care of the boat and all that. Tell you what, if they're not home in another couple of hours, we'll both call the Coast Guard, okay? Listen, I'm glad you phoned because I need a favor....''

Evie's car was going into the garage on Wednesday and she wondered if Lisa could give her a lift to work in Langley, since it wasn't far out of her way.

Lisa agreed and hung up, only a little comforted. The Coast Guard! Good heavens, suddenly she began to picture a rescue at sea. She told herself she was overreacting and went to check on the pie in the oven. It would have to come out soon.

Boxer whined, then began to bark, her excited, boy-I'm-glad-to-see-you bark, and whirled around in a circle a few times. Lisa turned the oven on low and took off her apron.

They were back!

Patrick didn't think he'd ever experienced a more heartfelt homecoming. The sight of Lisa Hudson's brilliant eyes, her smile, the way she wrapped her son in her arms and kissed him all over his tousled head and kept laughing, even though the boy protested strongly, made him want to step up and say, ''Hey, my turn.''

And he wouldn't try to get away, either, as Tim was doing. He'd kiss her back. How had he ever thought her plain and ordinary, even for a minute? Even in that old T-shirt, with her hair disheveled...

Tim finally escaped from her embrace and her smile cooled ever so slightly when she turned to him. Oh, yeah, he forgot—the big, bad hockey guy was standing in her foyer. ''How was it?'' ''Decent. We didn't catch our limit but—'' ''Hey, Mom! We got four crabs to keep for ourselves and Patrick put them in a bucket and they're really scratchin' around in there, you should see 'em! They've got big googly eyes and when you put your hand in, they try and pinch you like this—'' Tim made some pinching motions in the air and Boxer whined with excitement. There was nothing that didn't delight that dog, Patrick had decided. ''Tim, honey, you're interrupting—'' ''That's okay,'' Patrick said. ''He had an exciting day.''

''No,'' she said, shaking her head. ''He needs to remember his manners.'' Her eyes held his and she swallowed. ''I—I saw a storm blow up out on the bay. Were you caught in that?''

''Storm?'' He took a step backward, toward the still-open door. Might as well get that bucket of crabs. ''Heck, it was just a little blow.''

''Yeah.'' The boy broke in again. ''There were big waves, Mom, and we went up and down and up and down and Trevor got sick and barfed up his french fries right over the side of the boat!''

''Sick?'' Her look of alarm would have been funny if she hadn't been so serious. He wished Tim hadn't mentioned the swells. It had been a little rough out there on the return trip.

''But I didn't, Mom! I told Trevor he was a baby, but Patrick said he gets sick sometimes, too, and—'' He raced off with the dog, swooping and diving, his arms out to the sides. Airplane or boat? Patrick wondered if he'd ever had that much energy. She tilted her head. ''You do?'' ''Yeah,'' he said. ''Sometimes. I thought it wouldn't hurt for him to know that anybody can get seasick.''

''Even a big, tough hockey player like you,'' she added, eyes twinkling. Damn, she was teasing him. ''I'll just go get those crabs for you.'' ''Oh, we don't need any crabs.'' She made a face. ''I wouldn't know what to do with them. You keep them. You've been so generous with Tim already, taking him out this afternoon and everything.''

''Anytime. It was my pleasure,'' Patrick said. He meant it. He'd had a lot of fun with the two boys, teaching them to put bait on a hook, throw over a line while they waited to pull the traps. Neither boy had caught anything, but that wasn't the point. Sure, you fished to catch a fish, but most of the fun was just throwing your hook over and hoping.

''What's for dinner, Mom?'' Tim said as he raced through the foyer again, still swooping and diving.

''What does it smell like? Your favorite,'' she said, smiling. She had that soft, feminine look in her eye, a look he rarely saw on a woman anymore. Certainly not on the puck bunnies who littered a pro hockey player's life, at home and away. Patrick knew the look was for her son but he allowed himself to pretend, just for a second, that it included him, too.

''Chicken pot pie!'' Tim yelled and disappeared again, Boxer on his heels.

''Smells great in here.''

''Would you like to join us for supper?'' she asked quickly, then colored. ''It's pretty simple but you're welcome to stay.'' Her eyes searched his and he felt the same little...something that he'd felt before he'd grabbed her and kissed her last night. ''Unless you've got other plans.''

''Hell, that's a tough one,'' he said, thinking of his near-empty fridge. ''Man, let's see...'' He pretended to deliberate. ''What'll it be, sitting with a real family over some homemade chicken pot pie or

driving down to Tim Horton's and having a bowl of chili....'' She smiled again. ''So? Which is it?'' ''I'll join you. On one condition,'' he warned, holding up his hand. Then he corrected himself, admiring his own quick thinking. ''Two conditions.'' ''Which are?''

''One, I contribute the crabs and a bottle of wine. I insist.''

She laughed. ''Okay. As long as you cook them yourself.'' ''Done.'' ''And?''

''This one's going to be tough for you, Lisa,'' he said, lowering his voice just in case Tim was around the corner.

''Oh?'' Her eyes widened. ''Why's that?'' ''Because you're proud and independent. You like to do things for other people but you hate to let anybody do things for you. Like take your kid fishing. Like fix that leak over your porch for free.''

She was silent, her jaw firmly set. He'd hit the nail on the head, no question. ''Condition number two?'' she asked, frowning.

''You'll have to come next door for dinner sometime this week and I'll cook. Show you that I'm good at more than smashing a guy into the boards.'' ''With Tim?'' she asked quickly. ''Well, of course with Tim,'' he said. Damn, he hadn't factored her son into this at all. He was thinking of her. Just her and him. Some wine. Some candlelight. His terrific rib steak dinner. Or maybe his equally terrific frozen chicken cordon bleu entree from Costco. With salad, of course. He made a great Caesar salad. ''Hell, Boxer, too, if you want. We can settle it now. How about Friday?''

CHAPTER SIX

Was he smooth or was he smooth?

She'd agreed to dinner at his place on Friday before she could think of a good reason to refuse. It wasn't as though she had anything else planned. Tim's hockey scrimmages were alternate Fridays, and this Friday was free.

Smooth? Of course. He'd had lots of practice.

Still, she didn't regret her impulsive invitation. Lisa set the table for three and prepared the salad while Patrick, seeming very large in her small kitchen, had done whatever he'd had to do to the crabs. She didn't watch. They were huge, healthy Dungeness crabs—delicious. Even Tim had tried a morsel from a claw and hadn't complained, although he'd refused more. He was happy with his chicken pie.

After dinner, Lisa did the dishes and cleared up the kitchen while Patrick played some game with the dog that started out as ''roll over'' and turned into Tim and Boxer trying to move Patrick as he lay stretched out on the floor. Boxer growled and pulled at one of Patrick's socks while Tim tugged at a leg. At somewhere around two hundred pounds of muscle and bone, she'd guess, Patrick didn't have to do much more than lie there with his eyes closed, grinning.

Watching the three of them on the living room carpet brought back vivid memories of the joy she'd felt when she and her two brothers had finally managed to triumph over their father in one of their tug-of-war games. Fathers taught their children important physical truths—how much force was too much, what hurt and what didn't. How to play fair and with honor. No pulling hair or pinching, for instance. When to persevere, when to give up. When to switch strategy, as she recalled the times her two brothers had combined forces with her.

Their father had made sure it worked out that way, just as Patrick did now with her son. From the kitchen, she saw him place his palms on the floor and gradually shift his weight backward, making it appear as though Boxer and Tim were finally succeeding.

''Look, Mom! Look, me 'n' Boxer are doing it!'' Tim's red, happy face said it all.

She reached into the cupboard for a teapot. Tim was missing all that guy stuff in his life. Her brothers lived in ontario and Dave's only brother was in jail, so there weren't even any uncles around.

Tim was going to really miss Patrick when he went back to Vancouver. Somehow, Grandpa Dan, much as Tim loved him, didn't quite fill the same bill, certainly not on the physical level.

When Patrick finally got up to accept the cup of tea that Lisa offered, he leaned forward to speak to her softly. ''See? What did I tell you?''

His bold ''told-you-so'' expression made her laugh. She decided she'd been a little unfair. Sure, he made his living playing a violent, bone-crunching sport, but that obviously didn't mean he was a violent man. The time he took with Tim, with Boxer, demonstrated that. In fact, he was a very patient man...who loved to roughhouse, just as Tim and Boxer did.

She might have been wrong about him, but nothing had changed her opinion about the sport he played or his role in it. She still wished Tim would abandon his interest in hockey for a gentler sport— swimming, say, or baseball.

Tim crashed early, exhausted after his busy day, and Patrick left almost immediately. At the door, she thanked him again for taking her son fishing.

''That was a wonderful meal, Lisa,'' he said, his expression more serious than she thought the occasion warranted. His words warmed her. ''You're a terrific cook. I don't get a lot of home-cooked meals.

And thanks for something else....''

''What's that?'' Her cheeks were warm from his praise of the meal, simple and down-to-earth as it was.

''I had such a good time over here, I actually forgot what day it is.'' ''Oh?''

''Saturday night. That means hockey. Doesn't Tim usually watch?''

''Oh, yes! On CBC.'' The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation had been televising hockey games on Saturdays since the fifties.

He touched his left knee. ''If I'd been home alone, I would've caught the Canucks game and—'' He shrugged and Lisa heard real pain in his voice. ''Believe me, there's nothing worse than watching your team play when you can't be there to help them out.''

Home alone. Somehow Lisa didn't think of Patrick McCarthy as ever being home alone. She'd thought of him at glamorous clubs, with beautiful women on his arm, ordering room service in lavish hotel rooms, giving autographs, talking to reporters.

But maybe a hockey star could be just as alone, just as lonely, as a single mom in a new town with a son she adored but few friends and too little money.

Maybe star athletes sometimes watched television alone and went to bed early. By themselves.

She'd never thought of that before.

Sunday afternoon, Tim's team lost 8-2 to the dreaded Newton Vipers. The other two Raven goalies let in two shots apiece, but four of the goals from the opposing team went in while Tim was in net. Each shout of the crowd—well, hardly a crowd, more a knot of jubilant parents from the other side—sent a shudder through Lisa. Poor Tim!

When he came out of the dressing room half an hour after the game, he was red-eyed and his face was blotchy. He'd been crying.

She felt horrible for him and her feelings of pity turned to fury when Tim reported that Patrick hadn't been very sympathetic.

''He told me to button up and dry my eyes,'' Tim said in a wobbly voice as they drove home. ''He said I played a good game.'' Lisa could tell he was proud of that, even though he obviously still believed he was responsible for losing the game. ''He said to save crying for when you didn't give it your best. And I gave it my best, Mom!'' Tim looked at her desperately, his eyes welling up again. ''I did, 'cept my head hurts—''

''oh, honey! Have you got a headache? Maybe you're getting a cold.'' Lisa wanted to stop the car and take her son in her arms.

Told him to button up and dry his eyes! How— how unfeeling!

Now Tim was probably getting sick and he'd have to miss school and she'd have to call in and miss work, and all because Patrick took Tim out in the boat and they'd been caught in a rainstorm the

day before....

''Yeah,'' Tim said stoically, and sniffed, glancing her way. She could see he was torn between wanting to get as much sympathy as he could from her, his mother, and still act like a tough team player as Patrick, his coach and hero, would expect.

''I said I thought we'd win 'cause we've got him coaching us now, but he says coaches don't win games, players do. Hey, there's Jason!'' he said as they drove into the parking area. Tim often played road hockey with Jason Everett, a boy of about twelve and leader of a gang of older kids who played road hockey in the complex. Jason had been considerably more attentive to Tim and Trevor since Patrick had arrived.

''What about your headache?'' Lisa called as Tim leaped out of the vehicle and raced toward Jason and a few other boys, some of whom, Lisa was relieved to see, were closer to her son's age.

When she went out half an hour later to check on him, Trevor had joined the gang, along with...Patrick. He grinned and waved his stick in the air. The usual six or seven kids had grown to a jubilant twenty or so, including several girls, all chasing a dingy tennis ball around the parking lot. They'd have something to tell their friends at school tomorrow, that was for sure.

Kids. She shook her head and went back inside, smiling. And men. Some of them never grew up, did they?

Lisa didn't see much of her neighbor through the rest of the week. Tuesday, as usual, he picked up Tim from school, along with Trevor, and took them both to afternoon practice, but she didn't see him when they returned. on Wednesday he came to the door briefly, looking a little grim.

''You okay?'' she asked, wondering if she should ask and surprised at how pleased she was to see him. He wore his usual jeans and windbreaker and had come over to borrow a screwdriver because he wanted to fix something in Dan's condo and couldn't find Dan's tools.

''I'm fine,'' he said.

''How's the knee?'' She glanced briefly at his left knee. ''Is it bothering you?'' She'd noticed that he was limping more than usual.

''No, it's not bothering me, dammit. Where's the screwdriver? In here?'' He frowned at the little locked shed on her deck.

''I'll get it.'' She retrieved the screwdriver from the cupboard over her washer. It was the all-in-one kind that seemed to do the job.

''You don't have a Phillips screwdriver?'' He looked incredulously at the tool she held out.

''Everything's in there.'' She wasn't sure what a Phillips screwdriver was. ''You just open the handle and take out the one you want and—''

''I know how they work, Lisa,'' he muttered, adding, ''or don't work. Well, thanks.'' He smiled, or tried to—Lisa could see that something was definitely on his mind. ''I'll get this back to you right away.''

''No hurry. If we're not home, just put it in the box.'' She indicated the exterior brass-plated mailbox she'd installed—which had been the last time she'd used the screwdriver, come to think of it—because Boxer insisted on chewing up any mail that came in through the slot.

He started to leave and Lisa impulsively stepped forward. ''Patrick...''

''Yes?'' He turned, frowning. ''It's your knee, isn't it?''

''Yeah,'' he admitted grimly. ''I saw the doctor this morning. It's not healing the way it should and...''

''You don't want to talk about it.'' He nodded and gave her a sheepish grin. ''Yeah, I don't want to talk about it.''

on Thursday, Tim met her at the condo door when she arrived, groceries in her arms. ''Mom, we have to go out and get the present.''

''What present?'' She set the bags on the kitchen counter. ''Who for?''

''Trevor. It's his birthday on Friday and it's a slee-pover and everything.''

''Birthday party?'' This was the first Tim had mentioned it, and she didn't recall seeing any invitation. Probably in the bottom of his backpack, where Dan's note had languished for four or five days last week. Maybe she should call Evie, see what this was all about.

''Yeah, Trev's turning eight,'' Tim explained, ''just like me and we're gonna go to Surrey with a bunch of other kids and play laser tag. Pow! Bam! Yow-wee!'' He started blasting his way through the apartment, with Boxer's full support.

Friday? She nearly dropped the eggs as she started to put them in the fridge. Patrick's dinner invitation.

Well, of course, the birthday party would have to take priority. Trevor was Tim's best friend; Patrick would understand. They'd eat early and then leave an hour or so before practice so Tim could pick out a present for his friend. On the way, she could knock at Patrick's door and tell him dinner was off.

He didn't understand at all.

''Sure,'' he said, nodding when she told him Tim would be going to the birthday sleepover. ''No problem. Dinner for two coming right up.''

''Two?'' She clutched her purse tighter to her side.

''Bring Boxer if you want.'' His smile unnerved her.

''Oh, there's no need to go to all that trouble just for me, Patrick. Really.'' They were on their way to London Drugs to try and find something suitable for an eight-year-old. She had a feeling Tim was going to get her into a real toy store before the evening was over, though.

''You promised, remember?'' The glint in his eye, the challenge, was unmistakable. ''We made a deal.'' The pain she'd glimpsed the day before was gone, and he was back to his usual sexy, relaxed self. ''Don't tell me you've got something else on.'' He rolled his eyes dramatically and placed his hand on his chest, over the white T-shirt he was wearing, which revealed the muscle definition of his very fit athlete's body. Part of it, anyway. ''I hope not, because you'd break my heart.'' ''Patrick!''

''Seriously, I've got the menu planned, most of the shopping done, the place cleaned up—''

''Oh, I couldn't,'' she said weakly, wishing she did have something else to do. Would a trip to the library count?

''Sure you can. Why not?'' He winked and made a wolfish face. ''Live a little. Take a walk on the wild side with a big, bad hockey player—oh, is that my phone I hear ringing? See you tomorrow around six. Bye!'' With that, he ducked back inside the condo and shut the door.

Laughing, she was sure. Live a little. And he did have a point—why not?

CHAPTER SEVEN

What to wear? A dress was too formal. Skirt— maybe. Pants—she was a skirt or jeans person. She didn't have any dressy slacks and jeans were out.

Besides, she kept reminding herself, this wasn't a date. This was a simple dinner with one of her neighbors in the same condo complex. And he was merely returning a favor.

She felt like a teenager, digging in her closet late Thursday night and rejecting one outfit after another. Finally, she sat on her bed and put her head in her hands. Skirts, blouses, sweaters. She was so sick of beige and navy! She wanted a—a really hot tangerine number, with a slit up the side and a back that went down to—

Live a little.

At the Willowbrook Mall in Langley, on her lunch break, she found a robin's egg blue sweater with some angora in it, the fiber and the cut—scoop-necked and sleeveless—giving it a little more zip than any she owned. Okay, it wasn't outrageous but it was very suitable and it was on sale. She bought black slacks, too, a modern, slim-fitting cut and a fabric that she decided made her look more sophisticated. Even a little taller. With a short unlined linen jacket she had, she could wear the outfit to business meetings, as well. Double duty.

She eyed the neckline critically in the three-way mirror. Slightly more revealing than she might have liked, but then she was used to T-shirts, crewnecks and buttoned blouses.

Besides—revealing? Hardly, by today's standards. What was she thinking? Just because it wasn't beige? Her friend Lydia back in Toronto would have termed the outfit ''casual chic'' and that was exactly what Lisa wanted. Despite herself, she wanted Patrick to see her in something besides faded denim and shapeless T-shirts. It was a crav-ing—a deep, feminine craving—and she couldn't rationalize it away. She hadn't felt this kind of compulsion, this kind of desire to dress up in almost a decade.

With the little starfish earrings Tim had made for her in the community center art class last year, she'd be perfect. Well, at least okay.

''Ah! I see you brought Boxer,'' Patrick said, opening the door wide. Ten past six. Lisa, he'd guessed, was one of those habitually on-time types. ''Good! I was hoping you'd bring a friend.''

Lisa laughed. ''She's been alone all day. I thought you wouldn't mind for an hour or two.'' ''Not at all.'' He felt ridiculously pleased that

he'd made her laugh. She looked fantastic. In black pants and a blue top that made her eyes glow like sapphires. ''What's this?''

''Oh, just something I brought for dessert,'' she said, stepping inside and wiping her shoes carefully on the mat.

''You made it?'' Why the hell had she brought the dog? Protection?

''No, I stopped at the bakery driving back from Trevor's,'' she said with a nervous smile. Even her hair was different—softer and curlier. ''Shall I take your jacket?'' ''No, I'll keep it on for now. Thanks.'' She grabbed the lapels and tugged them more firmly over her breasts. Very nice breasts, too. The blue sweater thing, as he'd noticed right away, just skimmed the beginning swell of—

''Nice earrings.'' He led the way to the living room.

''oh!'' She fingered one in a self-conscious gesture. ''You like them? Tim made them last year in his art class. Wow, it looks great in here!''

Patrick had to admit he'd outdone himself. He'd vacuumed and dusted and cleaned up the week's accumulation of newspapers, and when that didn't make the place look quite the way he wanted it, he'd gone out and bought a huge floral arrangement, which sat grandly on Dan's scarred coffee table, dominating the small room.

''What heavenly flowers!'' she said, and dipped her head to smell the blossoms.

''Great, aren't they?'' Patrick said, wishing he'd remembered to put on some music before the doorbell rang. Nothing romantic, of course. He didn't want her to think he really was a big, bad hockey player—even if he was. The type who noticed a woman's breasts right away—even if he did. '' What are they, that's the question?''

She laughed again, a sound he found extraordinarily pleasing. ''Lilies, here—'' she touched two blooms and then a third ''—and roses, look at them, apricot and white and yellow. Some eucalyptus and fritillaria and baby's breath and, gosh, I don't know what all.'' She glanced at him. ''This must've cost a fortune!''

''What can I get you to drink? Wine? Beer? Soda?'' He'd been a little shocked at the price of the arrangement himself, but how often did he buy flowers?

''A glass of wine would be nice. Thank you.''

''White? Red?''

''White, please.''

Patrick went to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, then chucked some ice cubes into the elderly wine bucket he'd discovered in a lower cupboard. Champagne qualified as white, in his books. Most of his at-home entertaining was done strictly with seduction in mind, and he'd bought two bottles of bubbly before he'd realized that tonight was different.

As he popped the cork, she appeared at the small counter that separated Dan's kitchen from the dining area. The dog yelped as the cork hit the cupboard and bounced on the floor.

''Oh, Boxer!'' She leaned down to pat the animal's head. ''Champagne? Are we celebrating something?''

He poured the straw-colored fizzing liquid into two wineglasses—Dan didn't seem to stock any champagne glasses—and tried to think of an acceptable response. He handed her a glass and raised his in a toast. ''To Trevor. The birthday boy. How old is he today? Eight?''

''Yes.'' Lisa took a sip and blinked her eyes. ''Oh, it went up my nose!''

''Have another sip,'' he advised. Boxer had parked herself beside him and was looking fondly at his left knee. ''Music?'' He indicated Dan's sound system with one hand. ''I've got a few things I still need to do.''

Lisa disappeared around the corner of the living room, and a few minutes later he heard the low strains of some instrumental thing. Middle of the road. He set the table in record time. Plates, cutlery, napkins—

''When it comes to music, Dan doesn't have a lot to choose from, does he?'' He was giving the glasses a quick wipe when she

came back into view. ''Not if you don't count Stan Rogers and The Canadian Brass,'' he admitted. ''Or European men's choirs. It can get a little wearing.'' She smiled. ''Would you like help with anything?''

''No, this is completely my event.'' He walked into the tiny kitchen and reached for the salad bowl on the counter. ''You just sit there and look decorative and offer advice from time to time. If you feel you must.''

''Okay.'' She giggled, taking another sip of champagne, and sat on one of the three tall stools Dan had on the dining-room side of the counter. ''What's on the menu? or is it a secret?''

He could catch a glimpse down the front of her top as she leaned forward—not much, just enough to make the prospect of standing on his side of the counter to make the salad a very pleasant one. ''No secret. I hope you like seafood.'' ''After the crabs, you have to ask?'' ''Good. Shrimp cocktail, for starters.'' And that was because he could buy top-quality shrimp, already shelled, and he could buy decent cocktail sauce in a jar.

''Sounds lovely.'' Her eyes were twinkling and Patrick realized he'd do anything to keep her looking that way—happy and relaxed. Mellow. It was a nice change from being serious all the time.

''And then, madam—'' He bowed and Boxer barked madly. Damn dog. ''We have grilled steak

with Bernaise sauce and steamed asparagus, baked potato and a spectacular salad that is my specialty.'' ''Your specialty?''

''Yes. Caesar salad McCarthy.'' He raised both hands, hamming it up a bit. ''Completely from scratch. Even the dressing.'' ''Oh, my. I'm impressed.'' ''You ought to be. More wine?'' He picked up the bottle.

''I shouldn't,'' she said and held out her glass. ''You don't have to drive home.'' You don't have to go home at all if you don't want to, Mrs. Hudson.

''So, tell me something about yourself.'' Patrick got the romaine from the crisper. ''I don't even know what you do when you go to work every day.''

''You don't?'' She seemed surprised. ''I'm an accountant. I work for a construction company in South Langley.''

''An accountant? Now, I'm impressed.'' ''I enjoy the work. And it was something I thought I could earn a living at after—well, after Dave died.'' She studied her wineglass and ran the pad of her thumb over the condensation.

''And what kind of work did Dave do?'' he asked gently. Seven years or not, it wasn't as though her husband—and the circumstances of his death—were ever far from this woman's mind.

''Hardware. Family business.'' She looked a bit sad, reflective.

''I see.'' Nothing dangerous or violent about that—not like hockey, Patrick thought, annoyed at his cynical reaction. He started tearing up the romaine. ''I hope he left you and Tim lots of money.'' ''A bit of insurance money, that was all. Dave's parents helped me get through my accountancy qualifications. Now, enough about me.'' She set her glass down firmly. ''What about you?'' ''Me?''

''Yes.'' She smiled up at him and Patrick smiled back, feeling rather stunned. His nerves had been on full alert since she'd arrived. God, to think he'd ever considered her plain. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever met. ''You.''

''Well, let's see, I was raised near Winnipeg, typical small prairie town, played hockey since I was Tim's age, played in the Ontario Hockey League as a junior, went to university in Maine on a hockey scholarship, got drafted by the Dallas Stars, traded to a few other teams, finally ended up with the Canucks.''

''No brothers? Sisters? Parents?'' ''My mother and father live in Florida. I bought them a house in Tarpon Springs and my dad retired early. He was a farmer. My sister lives in Winnipeg, three kids. That's about it.'' He turned to the stove. The asparagus was in a steamer, ready to be fired up, and the baked potatoes were in the oven.

''Did you always want to be an enforcer-type player?''

''No.'' He looked coolly at her. Remember your dreams.... ''As a matter of fact, my goal was to be the top goal-scorer in the NHL. Isn't every kid's? My coaches had other ideas. It was a hard lesson for a boy with a head full of dreams.'' He shrugged. He'd put the hurt behind him; he'd had to. Hockey was a business first, they'd been only too quick to

remind him....

''So, what about this Mr. Valentine thing? Are you disappointed they didn't want you this year?'' ''Hardly,'' he said with a laugh. Relieved was more like it.

''How many times have you done it?'' ''Three times.'' He glanced at her. He was actually rather pleased at being grilled. Showed she'd been thinking about him. ''Why?''

''oh, I just wondered what it was like, you know, to go out with people you don't even know, just because they won a contest.''

''Hell, it's okay. They're always thrilled to win, of course. They pick what to do on the date, that's part of the deal. one year the winner wanted to go on a harbor cruise. Dinner, dancing. Real hockey fanatics, most of them.''

''I guess. I suppose they're attracted to the type.'' ''The type?'' He frowned. This woman was full of misconceptions. He didn't have time to set her straight about all of them before he left.

''You know—star athletes. Celebrities.'' She played with the stem of her glass. ''You ever sleep with any of them?''

He stared at her. ''Now what kind of question is that?''

She was beet-red. ''Oh, I'm sorry—'' ''No, you were curious. It fits your image of arrogant, aggressive hockey players, right? Well, I'd like to satisfy your curiosity, but it's not the kind of question a gentleman answers.''

''Patrick—'' She looked appalled. ''I didn't mean it that way! I don't know why I said anything so stupid.''

''Forgiven, my dear.'' He handed her two water glasses. ''Hey, mind putting these on the table? And then I think we can eat.'' So, Mrs. Hudson had more on her mind than a

decent meal....

Patrick told himself that, tempting as it was, he wasn't going to take advantage. She tried hard, but she was basically a naive, vulnerable woman, nothing like the women who usually drifted in and out of his life. Maybe that was what he found so appealing about her. But seducing Mrs. Hudson would be no challenge at all, and he always hated waking up in the morning wondering why he'd done what he'd done the night before.

He held her chair and she sat down, then he went back to the fridge to bring out the shrimp cocktails, already prepared and in their little iced bowls. He sat across from her and lifted his glass. ''Let's not talk about hockey. Bon appetit."

The shrimp cocktail was excellent, if he said so himself, thanks to modern food technology and distribution. ''What about you—any plans for Valentine's Day? Big date, I guess?''

''Oh, no!'' She colored again. ''It's a kids' day, really, isn't it? They're much fairer about it now than they were when I went to school.''

''In what way?'' So, she had no plans. Too bad there was a Canucks home game then, the Valentine's game. He had to be there. They'd be announcing the winner of this year's contest, who'd be dating Juri Selinek, one of the team's European players, a handsome blond giant.

''The teachers say that if you're going to give out valentines at school, you have to include everyone in the class.''

He nodded, wondering if he should've put on the heat under the asparagus already. All the cookbooks said it only took a few minutes to cook, but he wasn't sure he trusted that advice. Somehow, steam didn't seem as, well, definite as boiling water....

''You don't mind about the Mr. Valentine business?''

He shook his head. ''What's that?'' He hadn't been paying attention.

''You don't mind being bumped from the Mr. Valentine slot because of your knee injury?'' ''Hell. Photo ops, talk shows, open lines, all the

publicity they can squeeze out of it. It's not my thing. Of course, I'd do it again if I was asked but I'd much rather be right here, house-sitting for Dan and having dinner with his neighbor—''

''Really?'' She seemed inordinately pleased.

''Really.''

The meal went very well, in Patrick's estimation. He managed to grill the steaks without setting the place on fire, using Dan's oven broiler when he would've preferred a barbecue. Lisa liked her steak medium-rare, which was to her credit. Most women preferred well-done, he'd found, and he considered that out-and-out steak abuse. The asparagus was overcooked since he'd gone with his instincts instead of the book's advice, but Lisa didn't complain. The baked potatoes—well, what could you do to baked potatoes? And the Bernaise sauce was excellent; everything from Sal's Catering in Granville Island was excellent. He'd had the sauce couriered from Vancouver, but she didn't need to know that.

Her box contained two small marzipan tarts, which they consumed, then he suggested retiring to the living room with coffee. Patrick set the dishwasher on four-hour delay. He hoped she wasn't going to race back to her place.

''When does Dan return? Have you heard from him?'' She'd perched on a chair across from the sofa where he sat, fondling Boxer's ears.

''This week sometime, as far as I know. He called the day before yesterday, said his brother's doing well.'' Patrick got up to change the CD and wondered if he should put on one of his own discs. Diana Krall? No. Maybe k.d. lang.

''So you've known Dan for a long time.'' ''Twenty years. I stayed with the Kristoffersons when I was first in the WHL and I'll tell you, I was one scared kid—'' ''Not you!''

''Yeah, me, Lisa.'' He met her eyes, which were dark and intent. ''I didn't know if I was doing the right thing, leaving school and going to a city in another province to play junior hockey. At sixteen? New high school, I never knew who my friends were, if the girls who seemed to like me only liked me because I played hockey—''

''I never thought of that,'' she said softly. ''Plus, look at me now....'' It was a figure of speech, but he was amazed that she did just that— looked him over from socks to haircut—and doubly amazed at what it did to his pulse. ''I'm thirty-five and basically finished. Back then, I didn't think about what would happen when I got too old for the game. Now I realize I need to carve out a second career. Maybe business of some kind. Or the media.''

''You don't think you'll ever play again?'' She sounded horrified.

''Maybe, maybe not.'' He shrugged a nonchalantly as he could. ''But this season's over for me, and who knows about next season? Besides, it's time I made some decisions about my future. Lots of guys my age retire.''

Boxer had discovered the garbage can where he'd dumped the steak bones and appeared with one, festooned with a leaf of romaine Patrick had discarded when he made the salad.

''Boxer!'' Lisa got up but before she reached the dog, Patrick had removed the bone and taken it to the kitchen.

''That's no good, girl. Here—'' He rummaged in a cupboard and came back with a couple of dog biscuits. ''Sit, Boxer.''

The dog promptly sat, tongue hanging out in anticipation, eyes shining with enthusiasm.

''My goodness!'' Lisa seemed amazed. ''She's very cooperative for you, isn't she?''

Patrick delivered the treats and returned to the sofa. ''Come here and watch this.'' He patted the seat beside him and Lisa walked toward him and slowly sat down. ''Okay. Boxer, come."

The dog bounded toward him eagerly.

"Sit." Boxer sat.

''Lie down." Boxer flopped onto the floor.

''Boxer, where's your tail?" The dog got up and eagerly lunged at her stump of a tail, whirling in circles. Lisa began to giggle. Patrick fondled Boxer's ears again and grinned at the woman beside him. ''Now, watch this—Boxer, hide."

Boxer flopped down and put both front paws over her eyes.

''I don't believe it!''

''Boxer, peek-a-boo." The dog uncovered one eye and Lisa squealed with laughter. ''That's totally amazing!'' ''Isn't it? That's Tim's trick, by the way.'' ''It is?''

''Yeah. He suggested it. Okay, Boxer—'' He leaned back and dug in his pocket for another biscuit. ''Good girl.''

He turned to Lisa. Her eyes were huge. ''How in the world did you do that?''

''Walks. Here and there, in the park, when the kids were out playing road hockey.''

''You know, I've been—'' She paused, but Patrick knew what she was going to say.

''You've been training her on your message machine.''

''How did you know!''

''I heard you the first day I went over to pick up Boxer. Dan left me a key and instructions to walk her twice a day. You called and I wondered who belonged to that sexy voice and who would try to train her dog over an answering machine.'' ''And now you know,'' she said softly. ''Yeah.'' He couldn't drag his eyes from hers. ''Now I know.''

''So—so she wasn't getting better because it was working?'' She sounded bewildered. He shook his head. ''I don't think so.'' ''How do you know so much about dogs?''

''I've had a few. I can give you some tips about training. It's pretty simple.''

''How are we ever going to manage when you leave?'' Patrick could see uncertainty brimming in her eyes.

''What do you mean?''

''Tim's going to miss you terribly. Boxer, too. They have so much fun with you....''

''And you?'' He realized that he wanted her to say she'd miss him, too.

''Me?'' She gave a shaky little laugh. ''Nobody needs me. I feel a little useless right now. Tim adores you and I can't even train my own dog. I'm not doing very well—''

''Lisa. Look at me.''

Rather reluctantly, she turned her head toward him but didn't meet his eyes. He tipped up her chin.

''You're doing a terrific job. Tim doesn't know how lucky he is to have a mother like you. Someone who loves him and has time for him. Who makes sure he gets to play a game he loves even if she hates it. Boxer? Well, hell, she's just a dumb dog but she sure is a happy dumb dog. She adores you. You rescued her from the pound. That's a big responsibility and not everyone would've taken it on.''

She looked down again, her lashes fluttering, and Patrick took the opportunity to glance away for a few seconds and to swallow—hard. This woman was doing something incredible to him.

''Look at me,'' he whispered. ''You're a warm, generous, loving person and I-I have a huge amount of respect for you—no, really!''

He tugged her chin around to face him again, when she pulled away, shaking her head in denial. ''I admire you, Lisa. I like you. I like you a lot. And you know why I especially like you?'' His gaze searched hers. ''Besides the fact that you're beautiful and sensitive and honest and a damn good cook?''

She smiled tremulously. ''Patrick, don't—'' ''Because you're not the slightest bit impressed by me,'' he continued forcefully. ''I like that. You don't give a damn that I play hockey in the NHL, right? In fact, you'd prefer it if I didn't. You'd like me better if I was a pipefitter or a truck driver or a pilot, at half, at a quarter the pay.''

Patrick fought the urge to capture that soft mouth he'd dreamed of for the past week, ever since the night he'd visited her in the rainstorm.

''Well, maybe not a pilot,'' she said, barely audible.

''No?'' He cocked his head to one side. Her voice shook. ''You'd be away too much....'' What was he fighting? Patrick stroked her lower lip with the side of his thumb, his eyes locked on hers, then leaned forward to brush her lips with his. Feather-soft. Testing.

When she moved toward him ever so slightly as he broke contact, her eyes half-closed, releasing her breath in one long, ragged sigh, his restraint cracked. He reached out and pulled her into his arms.

Where she belonged.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Lisa woke to the sound of her dog whining at the side of the bed. Her dog but not her bed.

She stared at the ceiling. Omigod, she'd just spent the night with a professional hockey player! A one-night stand, just like any sports groupie. She looked carefully over at Patrick, who lay on his back, still asleep.

His jaw was heavily shadowed—there were places on her own body where she'd felt that rough-ness—his hair was mussed, his chest bare to the waist. His beautiful body. A tough, rock-hard athlete's body in the absolute peak of physical conditioning. It was like waking to find herself in bed with one of those perfectly built models in a Calvin Klein underwear ad, only Patrick's body carried the scars—one across his shoulder, another on his jaw—that were a legacy of the violence of his sport.

Incredibly strong, incredibly tender...

She had to get out of here before he woke up!

She was shocked at her behavior. Shocked, dismayed, astonished—but not sorry.

He hadn't talked her into anything. She hadn't had too much wine, although she'd had four glasses, two before dinner and two during, which was certainly her limit.

She'd wanted him. As desperately as he'd seemed to want her. As passionately, as hungrily. It had been seven long, lonely years for her. Patrick McCarthy's knee injury might be keeping him off the ice, but it wasn't cramping his style in bed. But then, he'd obviously had quite a bit of practice....

Lisa inched over to the side of the bed as cautiously as she could, her entire body blushing, if that was possible. Where were her clothes? ''Shh!'' she whispered to the dog who whined, obviously in need of a pee.

As she was. She inched her way to a chair in the bedroom, where she spotted her slacks and sweater. She picked up everything she could find and went into the living room to dress. Her jacket was flung across the sofa and there was no sign of one earring and her panties. She wasn't stopping to look for them.

She let herself out the door into a morning of glorious blue sky and sunshine. It was only six o'clock on a late-winter Saturday morning. No one, thank heavens, was around. Boxer ran down into the parking lot where there was a strip of grass and relieved herself. Then she came bounding back up the steps, ready to play.

''Don't tell anyone, will you?'' she muttered. ''Not a soul!'' Boxer looked up, one ear raised, the other down. Lisa wondered if that was another trick Patrick had taught her.

A shower, then bed for a few more hours. Later she'd call and see if Tim was ready to come home. There'd be grocery shopping and her usual Saturday afternoon activities—and then what? Dan wouldn't be back for several more days. At some point, she would see Patrick again, would have to meet his knowing eyes, would have to talk to him.

Nothing was going to be the same for her after this. How in the world would she pretend that it was?

She might have known she wouldn't sleep. At eight, Lisa got up again, cinched the pink robe around her waist and went out to the kitchen to make coffee.

At quarter past eight, her doorbell rang. Tim? But he had a key—

''Patrick!''

''You ran.''

''I what?'' He looked big, handsome and... fully dressed. He also looked angry.

''You heard me. You woke up in my bed, you panicked and you sneaked out, leaving these behind.'' He held a lacy item of clothing and the missing earring in one hand. ''What I want to know is why?''

''oh!'' She grabbed her panties and earring and stuffed them in the pocket of her robe. Then she met his gaze, desperately searching his expression for some kind of sympathy. There was none. Only a wariness. Hurt? Not Patrick McCarthy, star Canuck forward, tough guy. Not The Enforcer. Not Mr. Valentine, beloved of women.

''I-I thought it was best.''

''In what way?'' He frowned. ''Is that the sort of thing you usually do—sneak out of a man's bed before he has a chance to say good morning?''

Lisa glanced around, afraid they'd be overheard. Patrick wasn't exactly keeping his voice down. ''I don't know—I've never done it before,'' she whispered fiercely.

Abruptly he stepped inside. ''Is that coffee I smell?''

She nodded.

''I think a cup of coffee is the least you can offer me, don't you?'' He closed the door and Lisa stared up at him. He looked as determined as she felt shaken. ''Since it seems I'm not getting an apology.''

She walked back to her small kitchen and poured him a mug of coffee.

''Lisa?''

She wouldn't meet his eyes. She added cream and sugar to her own coffee and stirred violently. This was not part of her plan! He wasn't supposed to come storming over here like this!

''No, you haven't done it before, meaning you haven't bolted from a man's bed like this, or no, you haven't been with a man before? other than your husband, of course.''

''Yes,'' she said in a small voice. ''I've never slept with anyone but my husband and you.''

Patrick swore under his breath. She glanced at him, then took her coffee to the living room. She didn't care if he followed her or if he went right back out the door he'd just barged his way through.

A moment later, she felt him behind her and stiffened as he rested his hand on her back, at the nape of her neck. ''Hell, I'm sorry, Lisa. I'm sorry I talked to you like that just now.'' His voice was rough, apologetic. She felt tears prickle. ''I had no idea...''

''I'd appreciate it if you didn't apologize for anything,'' she returned icily, resolutely clamping down on her feelings. ''It happened, I'm glad in a way that it did, and now it's behind us, okay? Just another one-night stand for you and a long-overdue experiment for me, I suppose you could say.''

''Is that how you think I see this—a one-night stand?'' His voice was deadly.

''Of course I do. Your life must be full of women who're only too happy to hop into your bed until you get tired of them or leave town on a road trip.'' Patrick swore again. ''You have a hell of an idea of hockey players! You have a hell of an idea of me—''

''It's true, isn't it?'' She turned, daring to meet his eyes. ''Do you have any idea how many women you've slept with during your career?''

''Listen, that's neither here nor there and—'' ''Admit it, you can't remember! I've slept with two men. I suppose that's way below average for a woman of twenty-eight. I know it's not some kind of badge or anything to be proud of and, frankly, I'm grateful I had the opportunity to find out I'm not as cold and...and dried-up as I thought I was....''

''Lisa!'' He stepped forward and put his arms around her. She refused to respond. ''Oh, baby,'' he muttered into her hair. ''There's nothing cold about you. You're warm and passionate and loving—''

He held her away from him, searching her eyes. She lowered her gaze. ''Look at me, Lisa. Forget what you've heard about professional athletes. I'm not interested in one-night stands. I told you last night that you were different, that you weren't anything like the women I usually meet.''

''Much less experienced, that's for sure,'' she said, hating the bitterness she heard in her own voice. ''Not that I ever pretended to be anything else.''

''Lisa, Lisa—that's not an issue, is it? I just wish I'd realized you hadn't...you know, been with anyone in the past seven years. I'm afraid I rushed you, pushed you into—''

''You didn't. Deep down, I must have wanted last night to happen somehow.'' She shook her head, bewildered. Had she? ''I accept that. I have no regrets.'' She pushed away from him so she could look directly into his eyes. ''Now I want to move on.''

''Let me take you out, spend time with you. Get to know you better....''

''You're leaving, Patrick, in a few days. Back to Vancouver, the team, your career. I think it's best that we just leave things the way they are.''

''You don't want to see me?'' He sounded incredulous.

''I'm committed to my life here. My son. My dog. My job. I—'' Her voice faltered. ''We're too— too different. You're a professional hockey player, temporarily injured or not. You live in another world. Travel, excitement, no commitments. I'm an accountant. A mother. Boring. Predictable. This is just something that happened, okay?''

''Predictable! Who are you kidding?'' He backed away from her, picked up his mug and poured the coffee remaining in it down the drain. Methodically, he rinsed the cup and put it on her drainboard. A bachelor's habits. She watched him in a daze. Where had she found the courage to say those things? More important—were they true?

''So this is goodbye?'' he asked, standing by the door, his face unreadable. ''You want nothing more to do with me.''

''Yes,'' she said weakly. ''I guess it is.'' Patrick left, closing the door quietly behind him,

and Lisa sagged against the kitchen counter. She thought she'd heard a door earlier, but she must've been dreaming. Where was Boxer?

Ten minutes later, while Lisa was scrambling some eggs, Tim walked into the living room.

''Tim! When did you get back, honey?'' Had he heard her exchange with Patrick? Maybe he'd been in his room the whole time!

''Trev's dad brought me home early 'cause they had to go somewhere.'' Tim looked subdued, pale. He didn't meet her eyes. ''I thought you were still asleep, Mom, so I went to my room.'' Boxer had appeared with him, which made her think he'd come in while she was arguing with Patrick in the living room. Maybe he was pale because he hadn't had enough sleep last night....

''Have some breakfast. How was the party?'' She had to play this straight. Cheerfully. Hope he hadn't overheard her and Patrick.

That's all she could do.

Of course, she had to take Tim to his regular Sunday league game, which was in the town of Ladner, twenty minutes away. of course she had to listen to the buzz in the stands when the Ladner parents realized that The Enforcer was helping to coach the opposing team. The man she'd spent the night with, made love to...

And, of course, she had to suffer agony of an extremely personal kind as she watched him with the boys—talking to one, patting the shoulder of another as he went out onto the ice, leaning forward, cheering his boys on. The team, with Ernie Milfort coaching and Grandpa Dan helping, would never be the same.

Lisa couldn't stop her traitorous memory from seeing that broad-shouldered figure in the jeans and windbreaker down in the players' box the way she'd seen him last night—naked, eager, passionate. In one sense, what she'd told him was right: it was an experiment on her part. But in another, she was wrong: she didn't think she'd feel the way she had with Patrick with another man. It wasn't just making love; it was making love with this man.

Nor did it help to hear his name on her son's lips constantly on the drive home. The Ravens had won and the team was ecstatic. Of course, Tim believed Patrick had made all the difference.

''Remember what he said, Tim,'' she reminded him. ''It's the players that win the game, not the coach. And don't forget, Grandpa Dan will be back soon.''

''Yeah,'' Tim said with a big sigh. ''I miss Grandpa Dan but I'm sure going to miss Patrick, if he goes. Maybe he'll stay in White Rock. Maybe he'll move in with Grandpa Dan. He's got a spare room.''

He shot a sideways glance at her. If he goes, Lisa thought, not when he goes. Her son's imagination was back to working overtime. And, yes, she thought guiltily—she knew all about that spare room.

Tuesday she returned from work just before six o'clock to find Patrick up on a ladder leaning against the roof of her small porch, banging away with hammer and nails.

''What do you think you're doing?'' She shifted the satchel of work papers she'd brought home, from one hip to the other, staring up at him.

''Fixing your roof, ma'am, what does it look like?'' He hammered in a couple more nails and Lisa could see now that he had half a box of asphalt shingles on the roof.

''Did I ask you to fix it?'' she demanded.

''Nope.'' He kept hammering, a little louder, Lisa thought, than necessary.

''I didn't think so,'' she finished lamely, not sure what else she could say.

''I'm doing this because you're too proud to ask for help or to accept it if it's offered,'' he said, looking down at her. ''Also because I'm leaving tomorrow and your damn roof leaks. Are those good enough reasons for you, Mrs. Hudson?''

He was infuriating! ''I appreciate your fixing my roof,'' she said, contradicting him coldly. ''Thank you very much.'' She marched toward her condo door and inserted the key. ''And—oh, never mind!''

''And what?'' He held his hammer in one hand. He was directly overhead, his face deeply shadowed by the setting sun behind him.

''And for everything else you've done for Tim,'' she continued stiffly. ''And me.''

''Everything?''

She knew exactly what he meant. She'd told him that sleeping with him had been an experiment for her, a chance to find out if she was still capable of having a physical relationship with a man.... ''Yes, everything!"

''You're welcome, ma'am.'' He raised the hammer in a cynical salute. ''Always happy to be of service."

She slammed the door behind her. So that was what he thought—that she'd used him! Well, so what if she had? Fair was fair! It had probably been a shock to Patrick's enormous ego to find the tables turned for once.

''Is Patrick mad at you, Mom?'' Tim was making himself a peanut butter sandwich at the kitchen counter when she stormed in. He was frowning, his freckles standing out on his pale skin.

''oh, no, honey! We were just, you know, having a disagreement about something, the way adults do sometimes. How was school?'' She ruffled her son's hair lovingly, changing the subject, but he pulled away from her, retreating to the living room where he turned on the television to some channel that featured a lot of car racing and police sirens.

So...Grandpa Dan was coming back tomorrow and that meant Patrick was leaving.

Good riddance. But she knew she didn't mean it.

What did she mean? Lisa felt like bursting into tears.

Everything in her life was suddenly all wrong and she had no idea why.

Grandpa Dan came back the following day and Patrick was gone. When Lisa got home from work, her gray-haired neighbor was playing goalie for the road hockey gang in the parking lot. Her neighbor laughed uproariously when she told him about the mix-up with the note. Tim seemed thrilled to have Trevor's grandfather back again and didn't even mention Patrick's departure.

That was a relief. The Enforcer had upset their lives for two weeks. Now life could return to normal in the neighborhood. At least, that was what she told herself. At night, when she couldn't sleep for thinking of what had happened that last night they'd spent together, she knew life—for her—would never be normal again.

Then, on Valentine's Day, just when things seemed to be getting back on track, her worst nightmare came true. Her son disappeared.

CHAPTER NINE

It was raining lightly when Lisa came home on Thursday night, exhausted after a long day spent on year-end details. Grandpa Dan, bless his heart, had offered to give the boys supper and take them to their seven o'clock practice. She glanced at her watch—nearly half past six already.

That was strange. There wasn't one light on in the house, and when she opened the door, Boxer shot out like a bullet, nearly knocking Lisa down with her greetings.

''Boxer, down!' The dog didn't listen to either her or Tim the way she'd listened to Patrick, but Lisa had never really expected that she would. ''Where's Tim, Boxer? Where's Tim? Hey, you hungry, girl?''

She flicked on the lights as she walked in, stopping in the kitchen to pour some kibble into Boxer's dish. usually Tim fed her around half past three or four, when he got home from school. It was one of his daily chores. Strange that he'd forgot to feed her. He must've really had his head in the clouds....

She jumped at a loud knock at her door. Grandpa Dan stood outside, smiling. ''You're home, are ya?'' He indicated her roof with his thumb. ''I see you got that fixed, finally.''

''Your house-sitter fixed it for me. Dan, where's Tim?''

''Where's Tim?'' Dan Kristofferson repeated, looking thunderstruck. ''Why he's here, isn't he? Him and Trevor? They told me to pick 'em up here for practice because they wanted to watch some show on your TV.''

Alarm bells ricocheted through Lisa's brain. ''Didn't they eat at your place?''

''No, they said to get the pizza delivered here so they could watch their show. I gave Trevor twenty bucks to pay for it—you mean they aren't here?'' Lisa grabbed the coat she'd just taken off and quickly put it back on. There'd been no sign of any pizza eaten in the apartment. ''They must be outside somewhere. Maybe they're playing road hockey on the other side of the parking lot. You go around and check, and I'll knock on a few doors.'' Her heart sank. They weren't playing road hockey—it was too dark and they wouldn't forget their practice like this.

There was no one in the parking lot, and most of the kids who played with Tim and Trevor were either indoors eating their supper or watching television or they weren't home. Jason Everett's mother, or whoever answered the door, said he wasn't home, either, but she didn't seem concerned as to his whereabouts. Mind you, Lisa told herself, Jason was twelve, not just turned eight.

''Dan! What are we going to do? The boys aren't anywhere around here.'' Lisa tried to maintain some semblance of calm. ''Shall we call 911?''

All she wanted was Patrick McCarthy. He'd find the boys. There was something so large and comforting and solid about him. He'd know where to look. She knew he would....

''Don't worry, Lisa. They probably just walked around the corner to buy some candy with the change from the pizza. You know boys!'' Dan actually chuckled. Then he went into his place to call his son, Trevor's dad, to see if they'd heard anything.

Gone for candy? Without leaving a note or telling someone? Tim would never do that! He also would've left half the lights on, as he always did, no matter how many times she told him to shut them off to save electricity.

''They're not there,'' Dan reported, coming back to the door of his condo, his face ashen. ''I don't want to alarm you, Lisa, but maybe we should call somebody.''

The police. She knew he meant the police.

''That's my phone!'' Lisa jumped at the sound. She wasn't cold, but she was shaking so much her teeth chattered. Her baby! Maybe it was Tim....

''Lisa?''

Patrick! ''Oh, my goodness, you have no idea how happy I am to hear you—'' Her voice broke.

''What's wrong?"

Her knuckles hurt from clenching the receiver so hard. She started to cry. ''It's Tim, Patrick. He's gone, we can't find him anywhere, Dan and I have looked all over—''

''That's why I'm calling, Lisa. Tim's here. Trevor, too. Also two other kids, Jason somebody and another boy. Don't worry, they're okay.'' ''Here? Where?'' ''GM Place.''

''In Vancouver?" Impossible! She waved frantically at Dan, who'd stuck his head around the corner of the foyer and held the receiver away from her face. ''It's Patrick! The boys are in Vancouver at a hockey game. I don't know how or why they—''

''A hockey game?'' Dan looked surprised, then pleased. ''Well, the little dickenses! Son-of-a-gun!'' ''Oh, sorry, Patrick,'' she rushed on, into the receiver. ''I had to tell Dan. We've been frantic— well, I have. Oh, Patrick, I've been so stupid about—about everything. How can I ever thank you for finding the boys? You have no idea how much—''

''Well, you could let me squeeze in a word or two,'' he said dryly.

''Oh! I'm sorry. Listen, don't let them out of your sight. Do you hear me? Not for a second. I'll be down there right away to get them—we will, Dan and I. As fast as I can—as fast as we can. oh! I'll have to call Trevor's parents first and tell them he's okay and—''

''Lisa, honey—''

''Yes?'' She was still stunned. Stunned and relieved and overjoyed and—

''Listen to me—are you listening to me?'' ''Yes.'' She could hardly catch her breath. He'd called her honey. He must still like her, a tiny bit at least. Maybe he'd forgiven her for being so stupid and stubborn about the night they'd spent together. ''I'm listening.''

''Good. Give the phone to Dan.''

Patrick was almost afraid to hope.

He put his cell phone back in his pocket and glanced at the extremely happy boy beside him. Four boys—Tim, Trevor, their older friend, Jason and another boy, a friend of Jason's apparently. When he'd spotted them in the premier seats he'd expected to see them in—but without Lisa—he'd brought them down to the player's box so he could keep an eye on them while he found out what the hell was going on. They were ecstatic as they recognized all their favorite players up close. Rob Dal-loway, the backup goalie, reached over and cuffed Trevor lightly on the shoulder and the grins got even wider, if that was possible.

Patrick's plan had been to get Lisa into GM Place for the Valentine's game, but he had no idea that he'd be getting her here like this, chasing down her truant son. She was on her way now, in Dan's car.

He'd told Dan not to let her drive under any circumstances, no matter how much she argued.

Now, when she got here... He took a deep breath. He'd never felt this nervous before a game.

His feelings for Lisa Hudson were no game. He'd lasted about a day and a half in Vancouver, telling himself he was better off without her, that she was right—their worlds were too different. Hell, what was another one-night stand—as she'd put it?

But why, he'd asked himself then, had she even mentioned that their worlds were too different? Too different for what? If they were just dating, just sleeping together, how could it matter? But if there was more, if she'd thought, even for a second, that there was a possibility of a future with him, then, yes, the differences in their worlds mattered. Because, somehow, they'd have to come to a consensus, an agreement about bringing those two worlds together. Now, with him out for the rest of the season, they had a chance to work on those problems.

If he was right. If she really cared for him the way he wanted her to care.

''We're going to have to move, guys,'' he said to the boys, who'd taken an express bus from White Rock all the way to GM Place, at least a forty-minute ride. There was going to be hell to pay when Lisa got here, but he had to admire the kids for their initiative. None of which excused what they'd done.

It was all his fault, which was how he'd have to explain it to Lisa. He'd given Tim and Trevor four tickets to the game before he'd left White Rock, telling them to bring Dan and Tim's mom as a Valentine's surprise. Instead, they'd shown up with their two road hockey friends and no sign of Lisa. The whole ploy had been designed to see her again, maybe get her to change her mind about him.

It had backfired, big-time. But at least she was coming to the stadium. And she was in an incredibly grateful mood, he could tell. Which had to be a factor on his side.

He shepherded the boys to the VIP box on the first level, where he'd told Dan to meet them. The second period had just started. The Canucks were down one-nothing to the LA Kings, but how he'd keep his mind on the game for the next half hour or so, he didn't know.

''Tim!''

Patrick stood as Lisa and Dan came into the private box. She ran to her son after a quick glance that set Patrick's heart pounding, and flung her arms around the boy. She looked gorgeous. Blue skirt, white blouse, beige raincoat.

''oh, Tim, how could you have done this? You should've left a note!''

''I didn't even have to spend my allowance, Mom. I saved it. Patrick gave us the tickets.'' She looked up and Patrick shrugged. Explanations were going to have to come later. She took a few steps to stand in front of him, her

expression as uncertain as he felt. ''Patrick. Oh, Patrick!'' She threw herself into his arms and he closed them tight around her. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling its glorious scent. He remembered that first time—was it only two weeks ago?—that he'd sneaked a brief whiff of her hair, her skin. She'd been wearing that pink bathrobe. He'd fallen for her, right then and there.

''Oh, Lisa!''

''Hey! Mom and Patrick, you're standing in the way, I can't see—look, Steve Smith nearly scored!''

Patrick glanced down and caught the boy's eye. He winked. Tim grinned. The kid was definitely in his glory, with his buddies, his hockey hero and at a real game.

Tim stuck out his hand, thumb up, a question in his blue eyes. Patrick returned the gesture behind Lisa's back and Tim's freckled face broke into a thousand smiles. All of which made Patrick think, fleetingly, that maybe there'd been some method to the kid's madness in taking the bus to Vancouver with his pals....

Dan was sitting at the other end of the row, beside the boys. Dan winked and threw him a quick thumbs-up, too.

''Here, Lisa. Sit down.'' She took the seat beside him. Her cheeks were red and her eyes were brilliant. Patrick put his arm around her and leaned toward her. He couldn't wait a second longer to kiss

the woman he loved. Lisa kissed him back, slipping her arms around his neck.

''Hey, Mom! Patrick! They're announcing the new Mr. Valentine winner.''

The crowd roared.

''You're my Mr. Valentine,'' Lisa said softly.

He bent to kiss her again. Somehow he'd managed, awkward as it was, to keep his arms around her. ''And you'll always be mine, Valentine.''