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To tame the beast...or set him free?
Pro hockey player Thom “The Beast” Quinn is the team’s bad boy—the street kid who hit pay dirt when he learned to shoot a puck. But when his reputation gets a little too naughty for the team’s liking, they give him a warning: shape up, or be benched. And the one calling the penalties is none other than sexy Malin Pederson, the boss’s daughter.
In her head, Malin knows that if she can reform Thom Quinn, her future with the team will be set. But her body urges her to indulge in the kind of wicked pleasure that only the sexy athlete can provide. And in her heart, Malin realizes that this is a man she can’t walk away from, even if it costs her everything...
Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s The Mighty Quinns
“[Kate] Hoffmann always brings a strong story to the table with The Mighty Quinns, and this is one of her best.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Eli
“The [Aileen Quinn storyline] ends as it began: with strong storytelling and compelling, tender characters who make for a deeply satisfying read.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Mac
“[Hoffmann’s] characters are well written and real. The Mighty Quinns: Eli is a recommended read for lovers of the Quinn family, lovers of the outdoors and lovers of a sensitive man.”
—Mills & Boon Junkie
“A winning combination of exciting adventure and romance... This is a sweet and sexy read that kept me entertained from start to finish.”
—Mills & Boon Junkie on The Mighty Quinns: Malcolm
“This is a fast read that is hard to tear the eyes from. Once I picked it up I couldn’t put it down.”
—Fresh Fiction on The Mighty Quinns: Dermot
“As usual, Hoffmann has written a light yet compelling tale with just enough angst and long-term background story to provide momentum for the next member of the Quinn family we are most certainly going to meet.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Mighty Quinns: Ryan
Dear Reader,
When I was a child, my father would regularly spin wonderfully colorful stories for me and my three younger siblings. On Saturday mornings, we’d crawl into bed with my parents and my dad would recollect the time my mother (always the intrepid heroine of these tales) went big-game hunting in Africa or rode an elephant across the Alps.
Is this where I got my storytelling talents? I’m not sure. But I know it’s where I got my love for the tradition of a well-told tale. My second novel for Mills & Boon, published twenty years ago, was a takeoff on the Cinderella fairy tale. And now, eighty-five stories later, I’m about to tell another tale, this one based on Beauty and the Beast.
The Quinns are back for another trilogy, featuring “beastly” heros! I hope you’ll enjoy!
Happy reading,
www.millsandboon.co.uk
KATE HOFFMANN lives in southeastern Wisconsin with her books, her computer and her cats, Princess Winifred and Princess Grace. In her spare time she enjoys sewing, baking, movies, theater and talking on the phone with her sister. She has written nearly ninety books for Mills & Boon.
Contents
Cover
Back Cover Text
Praise for Kate Hoffmann’s The Mighty Quinns
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Extract
Copyright
Prologue
“HE’S GONE! And he’s not coming back!”
“Shut up, Thom! Just shut your mouth.” His older brother, Tristan, glanced over at the youngest boy in the trio, Jamie. Jamie’s eyes swam with tears and Thom cursed himself. The three boys were so close in age that he often forgot that James was still dealing with the fears of a seven-year-old.
Thom reached out and grabbed Jamie’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “We’ll be all right. We’re better off without him. He was just an old drunk who couldn’t keep a job.”
“Don’t say that,” Tris warned. “He was our da and we shouldn’t talk like that.”
Thom wanted to clock his brother. Tristan was almost two years older than Thom, and he understood the reality of their situation. But ulike Thom, Tris was trying to stay positive, hoping that it might keep their mother from losing herself at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.
Life had never been easy for the three Quinn boys, but Thom knew it was about to get worse. It had begun to unravel three or four years ago, when their da had lost his job. Denny Quinn had started drinking and gambling away the small paycheck their mother brought in. Their parents started fighting more, and a once happy family began to fall apart.
But it hadn’t been too terrible until two weeks ago. Until their father had gone out for a pack of cigarettes and hadn’t come back. A policeman had come to the door, and Thom had overheard what the man had said to his ma—Denny had been killed during a botched armed robbery, trying to make a getaway after grabbing a wad of cash from an open register.
“At least he won’t have to worry about money for food,” Thom muttered. Like they did.
“What?” Tris asked.
“Nothing,” Thom replied. “It’s almost dinnertime. I’m going to go out and get us something for supper.”
His gaze met Tristan’s and there was a silent agreement between them. Whatever Thom had to do to feed the family was all right. With his mother rarely getting out of bed these last two weeks, it had fallen to him to find food for them. Sometimes he could shoplift enough to feed the four of them. Or he’d find some discarded food in the Dumpster behind a restaurant or grocery store. Occasionally he’d panhandle, but any cash he acquired was saved for other necessities.
“What if Da doesn’t come back?” Jamie asked. Thom hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell his youngest brother the truth.
Instead, he patted his little brother on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Me and Tris will always be around. We’ll take good care of you and Mum. I promise.”
Thom grabbed his jacket and headed to the door of their apartment. The world outside was dangerous, but he’d grown up on the streets. He knew how to get along, how to avoid trouble. And he wasn’t afraid to stick up for himself.
He pulled his hood over his head and kept to the shadows, alert for any trouble coming his way. He’d learned the Italian restaurant down the block was a usually a good stop, especially after nine, when the kitchen closed. Leftover pizza, garlic bread, even cold pasta provided a filling meal.
The alley was silent when he arrived. He grabbed an old crate and boosted himself into the Dumpster, searching for a container for his takeout meal. He’d just found a whole pepperoni pizza, only slightly burnt, when the sound of a car engine caught his attention.
He risked a glance out of the bin, then cursed softly. “Cops,” he murmured.
A moment later, someone stepped out the back door of the restaurant. “He’s in there now,” the man shouted.
“Just step back, sir,” the officer called as he stepped out of the police car.
Thom tucked the pizza box under his arm and, in one quick move, leaped out of the Dumpster. He hit the ground running. The two men rushed at him, but by the time they crashed into each other, he was halfway down the alley.
He turned to face them, then bent down and grabbed a brick, heaving it at the police car. When it crashed through the rear window, Thom shouted, “Fuck you!” With that, he dashed onto the street, increasing his speed until his lungs burned and he could barely catch his breath.
He could circle back to the grocery store and see if he could snatch a quart of milk or a couple of cans of soda, or he could go home where he’d be safe. Jamie needed the milk, and maybe if his ma had soda, she wouldn’t drink the vodka. Thom decided to stash the pizza behind the newspaper box outside a nearby convenience store, then reached for the change in his pocket. It was always best to buy something in the store if he was planning to steal something.
He smiled at the clerk as he walked inside, but the teen barely noticed him, his attention fixed on a small television. Maybe he wouldn’t have to buy anything after all. Thom kept his eyes on the other shoppers. He managed to stash the milk, a box of lemonade mix and a block of cheese before he decided to leave.
He walked to the counter and when the clerk turned to him, he smiled again. “My mom wants me to get organic peanut butter. I can’t find it.”
“We don’t have it,” the kid said. “Try the grocery store on the next block.”
“Thanks,” Thom said. He strolled casually to the door, then stepped outside. An instant later, someone grabbed his arm. Thom spun around, throwing his fist out. But he wasn’t quick enough. The cop snapped his handcuffs on Thom’s wrist.
“Fuck me?” the cop said with a laugh. “Not tonight, buddy. Not tonight.”
1
“JUST LET ME do all the talking. If they ask you a direct question, keep your answer short and to the point. Don’t try to make excuses. No sarcasm. No attempts at humor. Just be humble and repentant.”
Thom Quinn shifted in the front seat of his agent’s Porsche, trying to find a comfortable position for his six-foot-three-inch frame. “What do you think they’re going to do?”
“Considering your past indiscretions,” Jack Warren said, “I think they’re going to come down hard. At least a suspension. Maybe a trade.”
Thom had played professional hockey for Minneapolis his entire career. A first-round draft pick, he’d spent only one season on their Iowa farm team before being called up late in the year for the playoffs and hadn’t looked back. By most standards, he was a star, the kind of player who filled a crucial role in the success of a team. A defensive power who could play both ends of the ice, scoring goals for the Blizzard and blocking shots from the opposing teams.
His on-ice performance had never been in question. He’d exceeded what had been asked of him. But off the ice...he couldn’t seem to meet the league standard.
And his latest escapade, three nights before, had been meticulously documented. There were photos of him playing blackjack with two Las Vegas strippers at his side, one of him in a limo with plenty of booze and naked flesh and a cadre of “friends.” One of those friends had betrayed him, selling the photos to a tabloid television show. The pictures had then quickly spread throughout the media.
“Can you make this right?” Thom murmured.
“You don’t make it easy,” Jack said, shaking his head. “You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time to grow up, Tommy.”
What the hell did that mean? He was on top of his game. He had plenty of cash to spend. Why couldn’t he cut loose and enjoy himself now and then? He wasn’t breaking any laws. There had been a few scuffles with angry fans and aggressive photographers, a few bitter ex-girlfriends with stories to tell, but he’d always managed to smooth out any problems he’d had with a contrite apology and a generous offer of cash.
Why did he feel the need to push the boundaries of proper behavior? The marketing machine that ran the Minnesota Blizzard had always sold Thom Quinn as a bad boy, a guy who grew up on the streets and came by his tough exterior the hard way. His nickname was “The Beast.” They’d created this persona for him, yet they’d never given him a rulebook. How far was too far? Apparently what he’d just done.
But he couldn’t leave Minnesota. His family was here and he couldn’t abandon them. “I don’t want a trade,” Thom said. “Promise them whatever they want. I’ll take a salary cut. I’ll go to rehab. Just make this go away.”
“I’ve heard this all before,” Jack said. “Remember last year when you slept with your teammate’s ex-girlfriend?”
“They’d broken up,” Thom said.
“Alex is your teammate. Did it occur to you what a fight between you might do to the team? Everyone choosing sides? You never think things out, Thom.”
“So I’m socially insecure,” he replied, an edge of sarcasm in his voice. “I make rash decisions. I constantly try to sabotage myself. I could write a book. I’m sure several of those therapists the team hired have written books about me. I’ve been told I’m fascinating material.”
“Cynicism isn’t going to help your case,” Jack said.
The car pulled to a stop at a red light, and his agent leaned back into the leather seat. Thom could always count on Jack to be straight with him. And yet Thom had never been able to trust him completely. There were only three people he’d ever trusted in the world—his two brothers and his grandmother. It was a small circle, but it was all Thom had ever needed.
Jack circled the block around the office building that housed Blizzard headquarters, and when he found an empty parking spot, he smoothly pulled the car to a stop. As he switched off the ignition, he turned to Thom. “Tell me what you want, Tommy. If you want to quit, I’ll find a way to make it happen. If you want a trade, we’ll get it done. Just tell me what you want.”
Thom had been searching for that particular answer since the time he’d walked away from his childhood. Until then, everyone else had made decisions for him. And though he’d fought tooth and nail against any type of authority figure, when his life was finally his own to run, he’d realized he didn’t have a plan. His hockey skill was the only thing that kept him from begging for spare change on a street corner. And that wouldn’t last forever.
“Maybe you need a fresh start,” Jack said. “You could go somewhere and just clear the decks. Start over somewhere else with a new outlook.”
“I don’t want to leave,” Thom murmured.
“You might not have a choice. Of course, we can decide where you might go. Your trade clause gives you final approval. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
As they walked toward team headquarters, Thom drew a deep breath and tried to gather a positive attitude. He’d been through this before—he’d make a stupid mistake, then smooth things over with an earnest apology. His skills on the ice had always balanced the scales. His crimes had been minor, his talent outweighing the consequences.
But he was getting older. He was twenty-seven, and boyish misbehavior wasn’t as charming as it used to be. In truth, most of his teammates of the same age were married, some of them with children.
Jack held the front door open for him as he walked into the cool of the air-conditioned offices. Thom straightened his tie, then quickly ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. He’d shaved in an attempt to make himself look a bit more reputable, but he should have taken the time to get a haircut.
When they got to Steve McCrory’s office, the receptionist was waiting, a tight smile on her face. She led them both to a nearby conference room. The room was already full, the air thick with tension. Thom cursed softly as he stepped inside. The moment he scanned the occupants, he knew he was in serious trouble.
He’d expected McCrory, the general manager, and Dave Jones, the director of player personnel. But seated at the head of the conference table was Davis Pedersen, the team owner, a formidable figure at the best of times, but now he wore a stony expression on his face.
Thom heard a soft sigh slip from Jack’s mouth. This was much more serious than he’d anticipated. Pedersen stood as they entered and pointed to a pair of chairs. “Take a seat, gentlemen.”
A ringing in Thom’s ears muffled the sounds of the voices around him. Other people arrived and sat down at the table, some faces familiar, some not. Thom’s gaze settled on a slender blonde who sat on the opposite end of the table. She was the only woman in the room, so it was hard not to notice her.
Her gaze met his, her pale blue eyes lingering for a moment. Thom sent her a halfhearted smile and she returned the favor. She seemed the only one in the room, besides his agent, willing to look him directly in the eye. Another bad sign.
The conversation began and Thom listened silently as all of his faults were recounted, one by one, each followed by a short dissertation on how his actions had negatively affected the image of both the league and the team.
He didn’t attempt to defend himself, or explain. Instead he waited for his turn to speak, knowing they’d expect some type of apology before they moved on to the punishment.
Finally Thom opened his mouth, ready to be humble. But Davis Pedersen held up his hand. “I don’t want to hear your excuses or your apologies. Hell, I don’t even want a promise that you’ll start to behave in a manner befitting the position you hold. As far as I’m concerned, those would all be empty words. You’ve made promises in the past, and you’ve broken them all. So, Mr. Quinn, here’s how this is going to play out. I plan to trade your ass to the first team that pays me a decent price. Until then, I expect you to behave like a choirboy, and I will do whatever it takes to make sure that happens. If you fight me on this, I’ll send you to the worst damn team in the league.”
Jack cleared his throat. “We have a trade approval clause, so you’d have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything,” Pedersen snapped. “Your boy has broken his morals clause more times than I can count.” He tossed a file folder across the table at Jack and the agent pulled a photo from it.
“The girl sitting beside you in this photo is a teenage hooker,” Pedersen said. “This is going to be posted on—on—what the hell is it called?”
The blonde cleared her throat. “Instagram.”
“Right. We were contacted by a bartender at your hotel in Vegas. He informed us that this...girl has been kicked out of the place repeatedly for soliciting. And she’s underage. He wanted five thousand or he’s going to post the photo on the internet.”
“I can explain that photo,” Thom said.
Davis slammed his palms down on the table, his expression fierce. “I don’t want a damn explanation. I want you to exercise some self-control!” Pedersen stood. “We’re done here. If you’ll excuse us, we have some plans to discuss.”
Pedersen led the other men in suits out of the room, but the blonde hung back. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked Thom. “Coffee. A soda, maybe?”
“Do you have any arsenic?” Thom asked.
She laughed softly. “No. I’m afraid not. Even if we did, I’m sure I wouldn’t be authorized to give it to you.”
“I’m all right,” he said.
“I hope so,” she replied. “Good luck. I hope it works out for you.”
“Thanks,” Thom said, taking a long look at her. Who was she? She must work for the team. But doing what? He hadn’t seen her at the rink; he would have remembered someone so beautiful. Hell, if he had met her, he would have found some way to seduce her. He usually didn’t let an attractive woman get past him.
“Don’t even think about it,” Jack muttered as the woman left the room.
“What? I’m not thinking about anything,” Thom lied. “She’s pretty. Who the hell is she?”
“You don’t know?” Jack asked. He shook his head and chuckled. “Probably for the best.”
“No, really. Who is she?”
“She’s Malin Pedersen. Davis Pedersen’s only daughter.”
“I thought his daughter was still in high school.”
“She was. When you were drafted. She’s grown up.”
“She’s pretty,” Thom said. “What did you say her name was?”
“Malin.”
“Kind of a weird name,” he murmured.
“I believe it’s Swedish,” Jack replied.
“Malin,” Thom whispered to himself.
A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. He drew a deep breath and scolded himself inwardly.
“Exercise some self-control!”
His boss’s command echoed in his head. Yes, it was definitely a bad idea to imagine the boss’s daughter naked and lying in his bed...
* * *
“THIS IS YOUR FAULT,” Davis Pedersen said, scowling at his daughter from across his desk as she and Steve McCrory followed him into his office.
“How is this my fault?” Malin asked.
“I hired you to contain all this Flitter business. We never had these kinds of problems in the past. Now the moment one of our players steps out of line, there’s someone there to take a photo and blast it all over the internet.”
“It’s Twitter,” Malin said. “And I can only control our players and what they post. I can’t control the whole world.”
“Then what good are you? I don’t understand how something as ridiculous as that damn Flitter—”
“Twitter,” Malin corrected him again.
“What?”
“It’s called Twitter. Instagram. Snapchat. Skype. Tinder. Didn’t you read the handbook I wrote for the players?”
“I don’t need a damn handbook to tell me what’s happening to the reputation of my team, and this man is dragging it into the gutter with him. I want him watched 24/7. Until we work out a trade, I want Thom Quinn on complete lockdown, and I’m putting you in charge of that. If there is even a hint of trouble—if a single photo of him is put on Twitter—this job you created for yourself is done and you can head back to your fashion designer friends in New York.”
Malin gasped. “You’re the one who begged me to come home and handle this problem for you. You said if I wanted a role in the organization, I’d have to prove myself.”
“And so you will,” her father said. “Protect my investment.”
Malin turned to Steve McCrory. “Are you really planning to trade him? He’s one of our best players. And the fans love him. I’m sure I can smooth this over. Just give me a little time.”
“We can’t continue to let his off-ice behavior bring negative publicity to the club,” McCrory said. “He’s gone from drunken brawls to teenage hookers. What’s next? I don’t want to wait to find out. It was my decision to trade him, and your father backs me on that.”
“I don’t agree,” she said. “If you want to see a social media firestorm, wait until you announce this trade.”
“Once we trade him, he’ll be someone else’s problem. Until then, he needs a watcher.”
It was useless to argue. When it came to decisions about the team, McCrory was an immovable force. He was backed by her father, and there was no hope of changing his mind.
She couldn’t blame her father. When he bought the franchise seventeen years before, it was a failing enterprise with the lowest attendance figures in the league. Now the club led the league in season ticket sales, merchandising and number of playoff appearances. Though they’d fallen short in the championship series last month, they were poised to make another run next year.
“I can turn him around,” Malin said. “I’ve got two months before training camp starts. Give me a chance. Maybe I can find a way to redeem him.”
“My mind is made up,” McCrory said.
“Mine, too,” her father added. “Why don’t you go explain what we expect of him these next few weeks?”
“Me?”
“I said he needs a watcher. That’s you. Or are you not up for the challenge?”
“Of course. You won’t regret putting this faith in me.”
Malin walked out of her father’s office, her spirits deflated. She’d never really believed that her father wanted her to work for the team. It had always been an old boys’ club, not an atmosphere welcoming to women. But women made up 45 percent of their audience, a figure that was growing with every year that passed. Sooner or later, the old guys would need to admit that they needed a woman in the executive offices. And she was determined that woman would be her.