Dominik

  DOMINIK

  Arizona Vengeance

  Sawyer Bennett

  Dominik is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Sawyer Bennett

  EPUB Edition

  All rights reserved.

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Dominik

  There are those who think they know me. They see a man who’s generous with his money and attention, which makes them think they can command me. They’d be wrong.

  I’m already wide awake when my alarm clock goes off at eight. Since it’s Saturday, I’d allowed myself the luxury of sleeping past my normal six o’clock wake-up call. I let the blaring go on a few moments, causing the woman beside me to stir before I finally shut it off. I turn on my side to face her.

  Typical Southern California woman with golden hair and a fantastic bikini body. Stretching, she flutters her eyes open—gorgeous baby blues—and smiles. Her voice is husky with sleep. “I’m thinking we should go out for brunch, then maybe take a drive down the coast.”

  She doesn’t know me at all.

  Disabusing her of the notion we’re going to spend the day together, I roll off the mattress. Grabbing my robe from the foot of the bed, I shrug it on and give her a sympathetic look. “Afraid I have to work today.”

  “But it’s a Saturday.” Pouting, she luxuriously stretches again, which causes the sheet to slither to her waist. I don’t even let my eyes flick to her breasts.

  I tie the belt of the robe around my waist. “Still a workday for me.”

  “I’m sure I could think of ways to make it worth your while.” She strikes a sexy pose. Admittedly, it’s slightly tempting.

  But when a knock sounds on my bedroom door, I’m immediately refocused. “Come in, Mrs. Osborne.”

  The door swings open and my executive assistant walks in, holding her iPad with her Bluetooth pen poised and ready to take notes. The woman in the bed quickly pulls the sheet over her breasts, her expression shocked.

  Mrs. Linda Osborne is fifty-seven, and she has been my executive assistant for nine years. She dresses the same way every day—even though I continuously insist there’s no dress code—in a black pantsuit with a crisp, white, collared shirt underneath and modest, two-inch block heels. Her blondish-gray hair is pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She always has a pair of horn-rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose, secured around her neck with a nondescript, beaded metal chain.

  “Your driver will be here to take you to the ESPN studios in half an hour,” she relays, reading off the iPad screen. “After that concludes, you’ll be returning here for your interview and photo shoot for Rolling Stone. Your plane is on standby, ready to fly you to Phoenix after that.”

  I give her a short nod. “Thank you. Can you send someone out to pick up my dry cleaning?”

  “Already handled.”

  Mrs. Osborne motions with her hand to the woman in my bed. “Come along, my dear.”

  The blonde whips my way, her eyebrows shooting up. She appears slightly affronted.

  “Mrs. Osborne is my executive assistant,” I say with a smile. “She’ll make sure you get home safely.”

  “But I thought—”

  With a shake of my head, I put a knee to the mattress and lean over to take her hand. “Last night was great, but I’m going to be traveling for the next several weeks. Perhaps we can get together when I return in June.”

  “June? But it’s April,” she whines, and I try not to grimace at her tone.

  “And it’s the playoffs,” I say brightly. Releasing her hand, I rise from the bed.

  “Playoffs?”

  I cut my gaze over to Mrs. Osborne in time to see her roll her eyes. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try not to laugh.

  The blonde sits up, still holding the sheet. “But I thought your team lost in the playoffs.”

  She’s talking about my NBA team… the Los Angeles Quakes. They lost in the first-round last week, which was tremendously disappointing. But I’ve got a diva superstar who needs to be brought down a peg, along with a coaching issue to work out. I’m hoping next season will be better.

  Frankly, I’ve put the Quakes out of my mind, instead focusing my attention squarely on my professional hockey team… The Arizona Vengeance. They’re an expansion team I bought last year, and they are in championship contention. For an expansion team to have done as well as they have is practically unheard of, and they are the talk of the sporting world right now. Hence the reason I have an interview over at ESPN studios this morning.

  Over the next several weeks, I’m banking on my team to take it all the way to the finals.

  It will take four rounds.

  They’ll have to battle through two divisional rounds against elite teams, a conference final round, and then the actual Cup final. Each round is the best of seven games. Right now, by virtue of our winning record, we’ll have home-ice advantage. That means the first two games out of seven will be played in Phoenix, then the next will be at our opponent’s arena. The last three games will be alternated back and forth.

  Our first round is against the Seattle Storm and they are a formidable opponent, having the hottest rookie on their first line and a veteran netminder.

  But I feel victory within my grasp. Deep down, I’m confident we’re going to take it.

  Mrs. Osborne starts picking up the woman’s clothes, an indication she needs to hurry along. She’s a gem—my Mrs. Osborne—and my most trusted and valued employee. It’s not the first time she’s had to rid me of an overnight companion so I can get my day going, which makes her irreplaceable.

  I incline my head to the blonde in my bed, who seems extremely confused. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Tamara.”

  Given my abrupt brushoff this morning, she appears almost surprised I remember her name.

  But I do, of course.

  When a woman is with me, she has my undivided attention. I listen attentively, and I remember every detail she gives me.

  Now, will I remember her next week?

  Probably not.

  Without a backward glance, I pad through my master suite into the bathroom, my thoughts now on another woman.

  I have not forgotten her name, nor one single detail about her.

  Willow Monahan is absolutely unforgettable.

  She’s actually the sister to one of my star players on the Vengeance—Dax Monahan. We’ve had a few encounters, and when I say “encounter,” I mean one spectacular coming together of two people with explosive chemistry. Sadly, though, she is annoyingly frustrating because she’l
l no longer give me the time of day.

  She has become a bit of a challenge, but one I intend to conquer.

  Within a short fifteen minutes, I manage to get showered, shaved, and dressed in a custom-tailored suit paired with a green-and-blue tie representing the colors of the Arizona Vengeance.

  When I make it into the kitchen, Mrs. Osborne waits with my coffee and a chastising expression. “Your lady friend was quite disgruntled. Perhaps it would be easier if you took them to hotels. That way, you could leave without a confrontation.”

  Taking the steaming cup of java from Mrs. Osborne, I flash my most endearing smile. “But I love my house. I love my bed. Besides, I have you.”

  Mrs. Osborne snorts as I make my way to the dining table overlooking a view of the Pacific Ocean. Why would I want to be anywhere else?

  I take a seat as Mrs. Osborne grabs her own cup of coffee from the counter before joining me. “It’s a good thing you pay me an exorbitant amount of money.”

  “Indeed,” I murmur as I surf through the news headlines on my smartphone.

  “Just a few other things I need to go over with you before you leave,” she says, once again referencing something off her iPad. “I have a reminder for your annual donation to The Miller House. How much would you like to give this year?”

  “Five million,” I reply without batting an eye. Mulling over it, I take a sip of my coffee. “And let’s add some new scholarships this year. Another million should do it.”

  “Got it,” she replies as she makes a few notes with her Bluetooth pen.

  “I’ve also confirmed your furniture has been delivered at the new home in Phoenix. Would you like me to take the liberty of having some groceries and other essentials stocked today?”

  “That would be great. Thank you.”

  It might be an extravagant purchase, but I felt a home in Phoenix would be a good investment. I’m going to be spending a great deal of time there throughout the playoff months. Besides, I have high hopes for this team in the coming years. Sure, plopping down eighteen million on an eleven-thousand-square-foot mansion might seem a little obscene for a home I plan to stay in probably a quarter of every year, but I’m worth billions. It’s a drop in the bucket.

  The doorbell rings, and Mrs. Osborne pops out of her chair. “That will be your driver.”

  As she strides toward the door to answer it, I take another leisurely sip of my coffee. They always arrive a little early so I have some time to finish it. However, had they been right on time, I’d force myself to leave. I’m never late for any appointment, something that’s incredibly important to me as a businessman.

  Pulling up my texts on my phone, I scroll to find the last one I sent to Willow. It was three days ago, and she still hasn’t responded.

  She never responds, though—unless it’s to tell me to quit bothering her.

  It’s so annoying. She often makes the palm of my hand itch with the need to take it to her backside.

  Her “playing hard to get” doesn’t stop me though from whipping off another message. I’m flying into Phoenix today. Dinner?

  I don’t explain how I know she’s returned from her job in Kosovo. She’s a photographic journalist, and she’s staying at her brother’s house in Phoenix. I’ve curried enough favor with some of my players on the Vengeance for them to feed me the information. This particular nugget came straight from Bishop Scott, the team’s captain. I expect this little favor was an overdue thank you for lending him my private jet to chase his fiancée across the country last year.

  Yes, it’s good to have some of the Vengeance helping me out where Willow’s concerned. God knows her brother Dax won’t give me anything. If I thought Willow was annoying in her refusal to talk to me, her brother is ten times worse in his disdain about my interest in his sister.

  But truly, he’s no concern of mine. Even though he’s repetitively made it clear he wants me to leave his sister alone, the truth of the matter is that I’m his boss and I can do what I want.

  For the life of me, though, I simply can’t understand why Willow won’t see me again. The two times we have been together were earth-shattering—not only for me, but for her as well.

  Like I said, she’s unforgettable, and I intend to have her again. She’s no match for my persistence and dedication in obtaining what I want, so I hope she’s ready for me to continue the chase until I get my prize.

  CHAPTER 2

  Willow

  “Are you about ready?” Regan, my sister-in-law, asks as she leans against the doorjamb of the guest bathroom.

  After a critical study of my face, I decide I need another layer of mascara. “Just five more minutes.”

  Regan doesn’t move, just settles in to watch me pretty myself up. I flew into Phoenix four days ago from Kosovo—where I’d been on an assignment covering the twenty-year anniversary of the war there. It had taken me three days of sleeping after I returned to start feeling human again.

  But I love it. The travel, meeting interesting people, beautiful scenery, the danger… everything. I wouldn’t trade my job as a photographer who memorializes newsworthy events all over the world for anything. It’s what I was born to do.

  I can’t wait until I’m off again but for now, I’m going to enjoy my break. While I’ve received some interesting contract offers, none have been fabulous enough to pull me away from here. I want to spend time with Dax and Regan—my brother and his new wife—and cheer him and the Arizona Vengeance on during the playoffs.

  Today, Regan and I are house hunting while Dax attends the last team practice before the first game tomorrow. She and Dax currently live in a smallish condo he’d been renting before they got married. Regan is content here, but Dax wants to give her a dream home and he’s determined to do it. He’s given her carte blanche to pick out whatever she wants, and she’s insisting I help in doing so.

  I love my sister-in-law. Loved her long before we ever became legally related as her family and mine were the closest of friends back in Michigan. Lance, her brother, was Dax’s best friend.

  But then their parents died, and Lance took over raising Regan.

  Then Lance died, and Dax was next in line for that responsibility.

  Except he’d found Regan wasn’t a kid anymore. She was a stunning woman who he—quite by surprise—found out was suffering from an exceedingly rare blood disease she had kept hidden from us.

  Dax did the honorable thing by marrying her to give her health insurance.

  He then promptly fell in love with her and the rest is history.

  “I really don’t feel good about this, you know,” Regan says.

  Through the reflection of the mirror, I see her arms are crossed over her stomach and she’s chewing on her lip with a frown.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I scoff while doing my mascara. I feather a bit more on before continuing. “Dax loves you. He wants to give you something beautiful. You should be happy to accept it.”

  Regan rolls her eyes. “I love your brother, Willow. Not his money.”

  I push the mascara wand back into the tube, twisting it shut. Turning to face my sister-in-law, I tilt my head slightly. “You don’t think he knows that? That I know that? I don’t know one person who can’t see the two of you are crazy in love. So why in the hell are you balking about him wanting to buy you a nice house?”

  Regan sighs and spins away from me, walking toward the master bedroom. I toss the mascara into my makeup bag, grab my phone off the sink, and follow.

  “Regan,” I call. “Talk to me. What’s the problem?”

  “No problem,” she mutters, then huffs in frustration before turning just as she steps inside her bedroom. Throwing her hands out, she exclaims, “I don’t mind him buying a house if that’s what he really wants. But to give me the power to decide it all? It’s just too much responsibility, and I don’t want it. He needs to help with this decision.”

  “But he can’t,” I point out. “He starts the playoffs tomorrow. You’re just goi
ng to have to buckle up and do it.”

  “Or we could just wait,” she grumbles. “We could wait until after the playoffs to make the choice together.”

  And I hear it in her voice.

  The doubt. The fear.

  “He doesn’t think you’re going to die,” I say bluntly, and she blinks in surprise before ducking her head in embarrassment because I called her out.

  Regan’s disease can be fatal, but she’s getting the necessary treatment thanks to having health insurance now. And Dax may have been a little wigged out at first and worries about her constantly, but he’s settled down now.

  I guess she’s not so reassured, and I know Regan… she’s merely worried Dax is worried, which bothers her.

  “I swear,” I say firmly as I step forward to put my hands on her shoulders. Leaning in, I get eye to eye. “Dax is good. You don’t need to worry about him. He is not rushing to buy this house because he’s worried you’ll die soon.”

  “I don’t think that.”

  “Stop it,” I order. “You do think that.”

  “Okay, I think that,” she whines. “I just want his head focused on the playoffs instead of on me. I don’t want him worried about my condition. As a matter of fact, I’m great. The best I’ve felt in a long time.”

  “And it’s obvious,” I promise. “You and Dax are in such a great place. Truly… he’s excited about getting a home for you to share and fill with little Monahans. So how about you and I go out and do some house hunting, then we’ll have a nice lunch—”

  The buzzing of my phone startles me. I flip it over, only to roll my eyes when I see a text from Dominik Carlson.

  There’s no denying the tiny thrill that runs up my spine when I see his name. He’s relentless, and that’s a turn on to me. Despite the fact I’ve been adamantly opposed to seeing him again, I can’t deny that just the man’s name gives me the shivers.

  I read the text. I’m flying into Phoenix this afternoon. Dinner?

  A slightly more robust tremor moves through me.

  Dinner?