Troublemaker - Lisa B. Kamps

Chapter One

Dylan

Having a woman in my bed was generally a good thing. It meant I either just had a lot of fun, or was getting ready to have a lot of fun. If I was lucky, it meant both. And if I was really lucky, it meant that fun was going to be extended for a really long time for both parties. I mean, if the lady wasn't having just as much fun as I was, I was seriously doing something wrong so I made it a point to make sure she was having fun.

The problem was: I didn't know who this woman was. I'd never seen her before. And she sure as hell hadn't been in my bed when I left for practice this morning.

The wedding dress was another problem. Hell, it might be an even bigger problem than not knowing who the woman was. Something about the sight of all that virginal white satin and lace made the skin on the back of my neck crawl.

I dropped my duffle bag on the hardwood floor with a thud—a loud one—but the woman didn't even twitch. She was definitely alive—I could see the slow rise-and-fall of her chest beneath the hive-inducing satin and lace—so I at least had that much going for me. The only thing worse than finding a woman I didn't know or remember in my bed would be finding a dead one. That might complicate things a bit more.

I stepped closer to the bed and cleared my throat. Loudly. Twice. The woman didn't move at all.

Well shit.

I thought about going over and kicking the bed, even moved closer to do just that, but stopped myself at the last second. This had to be a joke. I was being set-up. One of my teammates from the Bourdons had to be behind this. Luke maybe. Or Logan. Or maybe even Tristan. For all I knew, they could all be behind it. This was something I could see each one of them doing, pulling a joke to rub salt in the open wounds of my ego—especially since I'd complained about being on a losing streak ever since moving to New Orleans. Four fucking months and I was racking up a string of strikeouts like I'd never experienced before. My ego was beyond bruised.

Well, not really. To be honest, I was more focused on my game on the ice instead of trying to get lucky. I'd made one mistake too many and being traded to the Bourdons was my wakeup call. If I stuck to my game plan and stayed out of trouble, I was hoping New Orleans would be nothing more than a small detour on my career path.

That was the plan, anyway. My track record on following through with plans pretty much sucked but I refused to admit defeat. Not yet.

Which had absolutely nothing to do with the woman currently in my bed.

I bit back an oath then stomped toward the bed. Without putting much thought into it, I kicked the edge of the bed with my right foot.

Not the smartest move I'd ever made. The loud "Hey!" I'd been ready to yell turned into a not-so-muffled oath as pain shot through my foot. The woman shot up in bed, her eyes wide with shock. I had a fraction of a second to appreciate the vivid green of those eyes before she screamed.

I mean, screamed. Loud and piercing, with a shrill sharp enough to splinter glass.

And my eardrums.

"What the fuck!" I hopped away from the bed on one foot and covered both ears as the woman practically bounced across the mattress toward the headboard. I guess there was more material caught around her legs than she realized because instead of bouncing, she sort of tumbled and fell and hit her head against the headboard.

Which pretty much proved my point about the dangers of all that virginal white satin and lace.

"Ouch!" She placed one hand against the side of her head then glared at me through narrowed green eyes, like it was somehow my fault that she damn near gave herself a concussion. "Who the hell are you?"

I gaped at her for two full seconds. It wasn't just the way she shifted gears from that scream of fright to her indignant demand, or her blunt language. It was the sound of her voice, all sleepy and husky and demanding and sexy as hell.

Maybe I'd hit my head a little too hard against the ice when I face-planted earlier in practice. That