Chapter 2

Dana Davenport POV:

I shoved open the heavy side door of the ballroom, my high heels making messy, muffled thuds against the thick carpet of the long hallway as I ran out.

The cold air in the corridor hit my face, but it did nothing to ease the suffocating pressure in my chest, forcing me to lean against the freezing wall and gasp for air.

When I closed my eyes, the camera flashes from that hotel suite five years ago, the sound of ripping fabric, and Vance's cold face flashed wildly in my head.

I raised my shaking hands to cover my ears and started counting backward in my head to ground my senses and push down the PTSD panic attack.

Five, four, three...

Behind me, the ballroom door creaked open again, followed by heavy leather shoes stepping closer, each step hammering right on my nerves.

Pure fear made my eyes fly open, and not daring to look back to see if Vance was chasing me, I bit my lip and bolted forward.

The hallway lights flickered overhead as I blindly rounded the corner leading toward the back garden.

Right as I rushed around the bend, I slammed headfirst into a wall of solid muscle, and the heavy impact threw me backward.

A large, calloused hand shot out in mid-air, wrapped tightly around my wrist, and yanked me back onto my feet.

I crashed hard into a broad chest smelling of mint tobacco and expensive cedarwood cologne, my nose hitting a cold suit button.

That familiar scent that had been burned into my bones since childhood made my whole body freeze, stopping my struggle instantly.

A low, deep grunt sounded above my head, followed by a cold, raspy voice.

"Throwing yourself at me?"

I jerked my head up and looked straight into a pair of deep, icy blue eyes.

Finnegan Ochoa, the biggest superstar and Captain in the NHL, and the childhood sweetheart who had once promised me forever, was looking down at me like I was a stranger.

He wore a custom black suit with his tie pulled loose, his dark hair slightly messy, projecting the terrifying presence he was famous for on the ice.

I tried to pull away from his chest in a panic, but his fingers around my wrist felt like an iron clamp, tightening instead of letting go.

Through my thin sleeve, his palm felt burning hot, and that heat traveled straight through my skin and made my chest ache.

He lowered his head slightly until his nose almost brushed my hair, his warm breath hitting my ear as he spoke in a voice only we could hear,

"Five years, and your way of saying hello is still this special."

My heart hammered against my ribs out of control, so I clenched my teeth and snapped back coldly,

"Let go of me, Captain Ochoa. I have no interest in getting my dirt on your custom suit."

A dark, dangerous glint flashed in his eyes, and instead of letting go, he took a step forward, trapping me completely between the corner of the wall and his hard body.

At this distance, I could clearly see his Adam's apple roll slowly up and down, and the air between us grew so tight I could barely breathe.

Just as I raised my hands to shove him away, several blinding white camera flashes lit up the end of the hallway.

The rapid clicking of shutters echoed loudly in the quiet corridor where three tabloid paparazzi had snuck in and aimed their long lenses right at us.

My face went pale as tomorrow's TMZ headline flashed in my mind calling the disgraced socialite a desperate woman seducing the franchise star.

I struggled wildly against his chest.

"Let go of me! It's the paparazzi!"

Finnegan's eyes turned ice-cold, and instead of pushing me away, he shifted his tall frame to block most of my body from the cameras.

He turned his head and fixed those icy blue eyes on the photographers at the end of the hall like a wild beast ready to tear someone apart on the rink.

Terrified by the brutal enforcer aura he gave off, the paparazzi lowered their cameras and scrambled backward out the emergency exit.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind them, Finnegan dropped my wrist like he had been burned and took a huge step back to put distance between us.

He slowly smoothed down the front of his suit jacket where I had wrinkled it, his eyes returning to that high-and-mighty look of disgust.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pure white handkerchief and wiped each of the fingers that had just held my wrist right in front of my face.

When he finished, he tossed the handkerchief into the trash can beside us.

"Stay away from me from now on, and don't splash your dirty water onto my life."