Page 5 of Wyatt

She knew because, well, sheknewhim.

She knew how hard he worked at not falling apart. At pretending he had everything together. At playing the role of an elite NHL goalie.

What was he doing in Russia?

She closed her hand around the USB drive in her pocket and tried not to imagine herself strangling York.

When York said that his contact, Wyatt Marshall would be in Khabarovsk, that she should meet him at the Intourist Hotel to drop off the evidence that would clear RJ’s name, he should have clued her in on the fact that…

Well, that…

So maybe Yorkdidn’tknow all the painful details of her colorful and heartbreaking past with Wyatt. But he did know she knew him.

Or maybe York hadn’t been paying attention to that part, what with the bullets flying and escaping the FSB and fighting the mafia and…

In truth, the man might have his brain focused on tracking down the assassin who killed his girlfriend.

And who’d tried to kill General Boris Stanislov.

Aka, Coco’s father, but no one really knew that.

Except now for York and RJ.

So much for lying low with her secrets in Russia.

But Coco couldn’t leave, ever, which meant she had to get the information that could exonerate her foster sister, RJ, to York’s contact.

Wyatt.

Really, it made sense.

Wyatt was a Marshall. And Marshalls had a tendency to jump on their proverbial white horse and save the day.

At least for members of the family.

So, yeah, it completely made sense that he could be her contact.

Especially since he was oh-so-conveniently here in Khabarovsk, in Far East Russia, playing a Polish team in an international tournament.

Coco’s heart had practically turned to hot wax when she saw his picture on one of the flyers for the event posted in the hotel. And at a nearby restaurant. And in a grocery store. And outside the Platinum Arena on a larger-than-life banner.

The man still looked good, too, if this was a recent shot. Probably because he looked older. Tougher than his twenty-six years. Square jawline, whiskey-brown eyes that looked straight into the camera with a sort of dare, and a slightly crooked, flattened nose, evidence of one too many ice brawls.

She had loved to trace her finger down it.

The broken nose made him larger than life, added a toughness to his charming smile, even with the cute dimple on the right cheek, and suggested he was the kind of man who wouldn’t be afraid to dive into a fight. He was a big man—nearly six-three, with wide shoulders and a body honed by hours upon hours on the ice and in the gym. The man was practically religious about his health and body—he called it the triad of success—health, body, mind.

She called it pure heartbreak because Wyatt Marshall couldn’t walk into a room without stealing her heart.

And inevitably, destroying it.

As she watched him press his hands to his face—probably for privacy as he put himself back together—she lost her heart all over again.

Oh, Wyatt. Breathe. It’s just a game.

Clearly, it had been a terrible idea to come to the game. Roman would kill her when he found out. A month of keeping her safe as she healed from her gunshot wound, and she could be blowing it all by sneaking out into this crowd.

Except, it was a crowd. No one was going to find her. First, she’d dyed her hair black. Pitch raven black instead of her natural red. Okay, not completely natural, but she liked to experiment. And she wore a jacket, the hood up.

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