The Globalist. John Walsh

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      After all, how many men pull up in front of Madison Square Garden in New York City on a fire-engine-red Italian motorcycle, on time no less? But then, honesty about her own feelings was not something Claire analyzed with any great depth.

      For now, she’d just enjoy the show. And thank the gods for delivering her next assignment, who, Claire was convinced, would be the perfect solution to Trish’s current problems—and dreams.

      Jason Doyle was also the answer to the professional hockey league’s dreams. All two hundred and ten, well-proportioned pounds of him. Recently traded to the New York Blades, his aggressive style and league-leading scoring appealed to men. The women weren’t immune, either, what with his devilish smile and sexy comma-shaped scar that cupped the outside corner of his right eye. The combination made him look as if he was slyly winking at some inside joke, which only he and that certain female understood. Naturally, any woman who’d ever applied lip gloss imagined herself to be that certain one.

      Until now Jason had limited his commercial—and bodily exposure—to a few tasteful endorsements and a calendar to support research for children’s causes. Funny how those backlighted shots of his well-oiled biceps had landed in more than a few tabloids. Or maybe not so funny, Claire reflected as she took in the way his black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders.

      Being a self-proclaimed cynic should have made her intrinsically immune to Jason’s easy charm and over-thetop brand of maleness. But her cynicism appeared to have gone temporarily AWOL, especially when Jason pulled off his helmet and whipped off his mirrored sunglasses as easily as spreading cream cheese on a warm bagel. Only a fool could ignore the way her stomach did a major flip-flop, and Claire’s daddy hadn’t raised a fool. Jason Doyle was every bit as scrumptious; and twice as dangerous as in his photos.

      Claire stiffened. That danger, coupled with that mega-powered motorcycle, signaled a personality that enjoyed living on the edge. She had had enough of that kind of life, thank you. These days, give her calm, boring consistency. Maybe a picket fence. Well, maybe not a picket fence.

      But danger, or the allure of it, was just what the doctor ordered for Trish, and Claire was about to put her plan in motion. She was sure her friend would be pleased. Claire elbowed Trish. “Hubba, hubba.”

      “You can say that again.” Trish smoothed her hands down the sides of her black leather pants. “Didn’t I tell you he would make some cover story? C’mon, let’s meet hockey’s gift to womankind.”

      Claire popped the last piece of donut into her mouth and wiped the powdered sugar off the front of her ribbed sweater. “Well, it’s a tough assignment, but somebody’s got to do it.”

      Despite the ungodly hour of 6:30 a.m., a group of fans had already swarmed around Jason—no deterrent to Trish, who charged on through. “Jason, Trish Camperdown, features editor of Focus Magazine.”

      “Ms. Camperdown, a pleasure.” Jason’s high-wattage smile appeared genuine. He rocked back on his heels.

      Trish, normally the epitome of cool sophistication, actually giggled. He widened his smile. A full array of white teeth, large but not too large—perfect for nibbling on a girl’s earlobe—practically glistened against the gray of the Manhattan skyline.

      Claire was standing back a few paces, but still felt the full wattage. “You still have all your teeth.” She blurted out the first thing that she thought of. Well, maybe not the first thing.

      Jason looked over as if seeing Claire for the first time. He lifted his chin, surveying her closely. Not that she wasn’t used to that reaction.

      Men often did a double take when they first saw Claire. She wasn’t beautiful, mind you; not like Trish, Claire thought. It was the fact that very few thirty-year-old women had a dramatic gray streak in their hair. She’d had it since she was eighteen, and for a time in her life had actually tried to dye it. But at the age of twenty-four or twenty-five, she had just given up, accepting it for what it was, a genetic quirk passed down by her father—a typically flamboyant quirk.

      Big Jim Marsden had been a world-renowned, big-game photographer with a lust for life and a unique style all his own. If a giant rhino were charging at full speed, Big Jim could still hold a glass of bourbon in one hand and his trusty Leica camera in the other. All without flinching.

      Jason Doyle didn’t seem to flinch at a little sight of gray either. “I have other things intact, also,” he replied.

      He didn’t say it with a leer. That would be cheesy, and Jason Doyle was anything but cheesy. At six foot two, with four fingers of one hand slid into the back pocket of his jeans, and his thumb looped casually on the faded denim, the man looked as solid as Mount Rushmore and radiated as much sincerity as Washington, Jefferson and Lincoln combined. He was as true blue as they came, and Claire didn’t doubt that on Memorial Day he could be found in his little hometown—the guy had to come from someplace with a population of five thousand, who had wraparound porches on their white clapboard houses—placing tiny flags on the graves of the fallen war heroes.

      No, when Jason Doyle said he had all his parts intact, Claire had no trouble getting the drift. It was where her imagination was drifting that had her more concerned.

      “And you are?” He cocked one eyebrow and cradled his helmet against his jeans-clad hipbone.

      “Claire—” An overeager fan pushed against Claire with bruising eagerness before she had a chance to finish. She bumped forward, her side landing against the hard plastic of Jason’s motorcycle helmet.

      He shot out a large hand, cushioning the blow. He grabbed her elbow and stopped her before her nose bumped his chin.

      And what a chin. A small cleft. Early morning stubble. A slight scar along the side. That, and the one near his eye, gave him a sense of character that kept his features from being merely perfect. Claire gulped and looked up into tiger’s-eye, flecked-brown eyes that spelled trouble with a capital T. “My mother warned me about guys like you,” she mumbled. Claire shook her head, trying hard not to feel the sheer strength of his grip through her bulky sweater.

      “That’s the trouble with mothers.” Jason’s grin stretched wider. A devastating dimple marked one cheek. “They never look beyond the surface.” Another surge of fans squashed Claire more firmly into his side.

      Talk about surface. As she slammed against his body, Claire felt the energy vibrating from Jason’s frame, his muscular legs straining against his worn jeans. And when she lifted her hand defensively, she felt his chest through his thin black T-shirt, his well-defined pectorals and pancake-flat stomach.

      Claire shook her head. This embodiment of masculinity was meant for Trish. She should not be receiving sensory impressions with the magnitude of an air raid siren. She raised one eyebrow, arched her neck, and gave him the slow once-over. “And a very nice surface it is, too. But there won’t be much left of it if we don’t get you inside.”

      She turned to look for Trish. Her friend’s sleek chignon had come loose in the hubbub, and Claire didn’t think her four-hundred-dollar Italian designer shoes could take much more of the stampede. And more fans were swarming their way. Quick action was needed. “Trish, why don’t you and Jason fight your way inside? Grab one of the security guards over there to help you. We paid them overtime. They may as well earn their money.”

      Claire turned back to Jason. For a man about to be smothered by a band of adoring fans, he seemed remarkably calm. If anything, he was smiling more broadly than ever. “Something funny?” she asked.

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