Face-Off

by Nancy Warren

  What she did have was a favorite little black dress, a new bottle of nail varnish in a hot designer color and a pair of Jimmy Choos she’d bought on sale because they were irresistible, though they were pricey even at fifty-percent off. Never had she been so happy that she hadn’t listened to her sensible, frugal self on the day she’d spotted the green-and-black stilettos.

  While she painted her nails, she flipped on the television. She was channel surfing when she saw Jarrad. On her TV screen. For a second she thought she’d conjured him simply from thinking about him, but no, that really was Jarrad grinning out at her from her flat screen, with shaving cream all over his face.

  She watched the entire commercial, a sick feeling spreading through her. The final image was of Jarrad with a woman who looked like a young Catherine Zeta Jones—all sex appeal and attitude—heading out on the town. She was as different from Sierra as Saks is from Wal-Mart. Nothing on that woman’s body had come from the sales rack.

  With a low moan of horror, Sierra realized that Jarrad was some kind of fancy hockey star. A couple of minutes on Google confirmed her worst fears.

  This guy was so far out of her league they weren’t even on the same planet.

  An NHL superstar, he’d helped lead his team to Stanley Cup triumph three years ago. He’d taken a body blow to the head in an early-season game that had left him with some vision problems that meant he couldn’t play professionally any more.

  But far harder for her to stomach were the endless photographs of him with a stunning swimsuit model.

  A swimsuit model, for heaven’s sake. The kind of woman put on this earth to make Sierra forever feel like the forgettable girl next door.

  What had she been thinking?

  An aura of success had clung to him, she now realized. Everything from his tan to his easy charm to his uber-trendy jeans had screamed money. And look at the way they’d knocked themselves out at the skate-rental place.

  How blind she’d been. How foolish. And why did she keep setting herself up for failure with these men who were altogether too much for her?

  But she hadn’t done anything except cling to the boards like a motherless chimp to a tree. Why had he asked her out?

  If only she had some way to get hold of him, she’d cancel their date.

  Only she didn’t.

  So she simply wouldn’t show up for their date. She’d call the restaurant and leave a message telling him she wasn’t coming. Big deal. A superstar like that? He’d have a dinner companion five minutes after he sat himself down at the bar.

  She looked up the restaurant’s phone number. Picked up the phone. Put it down. Picked it up, put it down. A third time she picked the receiver up and then slammed the thing down. Sometimes Sierra cursed her mother for the manners she’d instilled in her daughter. No matter that Jarrad was way, way out of her league and was no doubt taking out a very ordinary primary-school teacher for obscure reasons of his own, she could not stand the man up on their first date.

  It simply wasn’t in her too-polite nature.

  So, she tortured herself for a few more minutes by gazing at the perfect bikini-clad body of his professional-model former wife.

  Not even her sexiest dress and the high heels could disguise the fact that Sierra’s curves were modest at best, and her height no more than average.

  She could argue that her face and body were entirely natural and kept in shape with regular yoga practice and sporadic jogging rather than discreet visits to a plastic surgeon, but pictures didn’t lie. The former Mrs. McBride’s nips and tucks and the vats of collagen Sierra suspected were responsible for that amazingly sexy pout were definitely doing their job.

  Sierra picked up her evening bag and paused to glance in the mirror. One thing she was certain of—Jarrad McBride wouldn’t be seeing her naked.

  4

  WHY DID HE KEEP picturing her naked? Jarrad could not figure it out. He wasn’t the kind of guy to perv around a woman he barely knew. Besides, compared to the curvy babes in his regular world, Sierra wouldn’t stand out.

  And yet, he realized with most of the women he knew, it didn’t take a lot of imagination to picture them naked. Sure a lot of them were gorgeous, some even that lucky by nature, but there was a kind of sameness to the big-breasted, long-limbed, long-haired, Chiclet-toothed, tanned females he’d been surrounded by in L.A.

  Sierra was so different. Her curves were discreet. He doubted she even filled a B cup. Her hips weren’t extravagantly full or boyishly slim, but somewhere in the middle. She wasn’t tall or short, but average. And because the obvious places didn’t grab all his attention, he found himself noticing how delicate her wrists were. How slim and elegant her neck. How much he liked the slight imperfection of her teeth when she smiled. One of her side teeth overlapped another, giving her a charming smile. Everything was so real with this woman.

  Including her intelligence. Not that he wanted to put down his ex, but her idea of news was to check Perez Hilton daily and pass on the bitchiest tidbits to him.

  He’d asked for a private room in a restaurant he used to frequent, partly because of the upstairs space. Until he was no longer news, he really didn’t want to be seen publicly. Not that the media in Vancouver were anything like the L.A. bunch, but he didn’t want any problems. Besides, he didn’t imagine Sierra wanted her photo on some gossip blog. She seemed to be a woman who liked her privacy. And who could blame her?

  So, when the maître d’ had escorted them upstairs to a private room, her eyes had widened for a moment but she hadn’t commented.

  Which made him explain.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you, but there’s been some media interest in me lately. I thought we might like some privacy.”

  She nodded. “I understand,” she said softly. What a relief not to have to explain.

  WELL, THE EVENING WAS going exactly as she would have imagined. He was already hiding her away, no doubt ashamed of himself for having asked her out. She couldn’t imagine how much he was hurting now that he could no longer play hockey. Then he’d lost his wife to another man.

  The icing on the cake would be for the media to report that he’d fallen low enough to be seen with a nobody who could barely fill a B cup.

  And yet he didn’t seem as if he regretted his choice of date for the evening. He acted genuinely interested in her and so like the man she’d thought he was at the rink that she relaxed and found herself telling him about some of her adventures in the classroom. Michael had always been bored and dismissive of her job. But Jarrad laughed at her stories, and regaled her with a few stories about him and his siblings as kids.

  When he talked about the past, she could see him as a little boy. The image filled her with warmth.

  He talked a lot with his hands, she noticed. They were big hands, the kind that wielded a hockey stick the way a Viking might have wielded a sword.

  Twice she became completely distracted watching those big hands, imagining them on her body.

  She grabbed her water and drank quickly, wondering if the wonderful wine he’d chosen had completely gone to her head. Or her nether regions. It was so unlike her to be having sexy thoughts about a stranger. And yet he wasn’t a stranger. He seemed familiar to her somehow, and so easy to talk to.

  Stranger or not, as the evening progressed, she realized she wanted him in the most elemental way. Even though they talked about a variety of subjects, not one of which was sexual, she knew, every time their gazes connected, that he was thinking the same thoughts. Suspected he knew she was too.

  But she wouldn’t go down that road again. If Michael had been too far above her on the social/sexual scale, this guy was in the stratosphere.

  Michael’s betrayal had hurt. Somehow, she thought that Jarrad’s would devastate her.

  “Your wrists are so tiny,” he said, looking at her right hand toying with the bottom of her wineglass. It was the first really personal thing he’d said. He reached over, picked up her hand. At the touch of his
tough, leathery fingers on her skin, she shivered. He wrapped his hand around her wrist and it was thicker than a gauntlet. “You make me feel like an oversized baboon.” He glanced over at her, all steamy and delicious, “I’d be scared to break you.”

  She held his gaze. “I’m tougher than I look,” she said. Then almost gasped at her own boldness. Where had that come from?

  There was a beat of potent silence. He broke it, saying huskily, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

  Her heart jumped in her chest. The idea both panicked and excited her. She licked her lips.

  And the way he gazed at them, she realized he’d mistaken her nervous gesture for a provocative one. Oh, crap. She was in so much trouble.

  “Shall we go?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  As they left, he put a hand on her back, not exactly the most sexual gesture in history and yet she felt his heat burning through the material of her dress, felt the primal drumbeat of passion between them.

  He walked her to his car, opened her door for her, and when he got into his own side, he didn’t start the car right away. Instead, he leaned forward, closing the distance between them with tantalizing slowness. Then he captured her mouth with his, kissing her slowly as though savoring her.

  Oh, he felt so good. She loved the shape of his mouth, the feel of his lips on hers, the rasp of stubble when his chin brushed her. He touched his tongue to her lips and she opened for him, greedy and wanting.

  After about a year of kissing, he pulled away. Both of them were breathing fast. “I want to see you again.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Could it be tomorrow? I’m probably only going to be in town for a couple of weeks. I don’t want to waste any time.”

  “A couple of weeks?” She felt chilled suddenly. This promising beginning already had its end?

  And yet, on some level it was perfect. A brief fling with a great guy, somebody who couldn’t hurt her because there wouldn’t be time. He was the perfect antidote to the unpleasant aftertaste of Michael in her system. She hadn’t even had a date since he’d humiliated her, she certainly hadn’t kissed another man and she’d assumed it would be a long, long time before she’d trust a man enough to be intimate.

  But then Jarrad had come along. Jarrad who was a celebrity, a wounded hero, a man so far above her he was more like a fantasy than an actual human being.

  If he were permanently in Vancouver she couldn’t put herself through the possibility of being crushed. But if he was only here for two weeks?

  Then maybe he was absolutely, exactly perfect.

  Besides, some demon had taken over her body, and she felt like a completely different woman with Jarrad.

  If she only had two weeks, she didn’t plan on wasting any of it.

  She closed the distance between them, put her lips to his ear. “If we only have two weeks, why wait until tomorrow?”

  He put a hand to the back of her neck, dipped her back so he could look at her face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  She breathed in the scent of him. So uniquely his and so utterly seductive to her. “Yes.”

  5

  HE DROVE BESIDE THE OCEAN, gray and moody as though depressed by the constant rain. He’d never realized how much he liked rain until he lived away from it. There was something comforting and familiar about the pound of raindrops on the roof, the splash of puddles in the road.

  “Where are we going?” she asked once, as they headed over Lions Gate Bridge and into West Vancouver.

  “My place.”

  “You keep a place here?”

  “Sure. I bought it a while ago. I’m up here enough that it makes sense.”

  In fact, this had been his first real-estate purchase, the heady plunge of a guy who’d suddenly made it. Luckily, he’d had good advisors and enough people who’d smack him down in a second if he got too full of himself that they wouldn’t let quick success go to his head.

  But nobody could have talked him out of buying the house when he first saw it. Tucked away in a quiet cove on the waterfront, the house had originally been a summer cottage back before a bridge connected Vancouver with the north shore. Back when you had to take a ferry across. Of course, since then waterfront property in West Van had risen in value with dizzying speed, and the home had been modernized, but it still had the bones of the original cottage and he’d resisted all ideas from well-meaning friends and his ex to knock the structure down and build a monster house. He didn’t want a fancy mansion. He wanted privacy, an ocean view and a bit of beach. And a house that felt like home. He’d spent enough nights out of town and in hotels that he’d really come to value having a home.

  Somehow, the Malibu place had never really felt like home to him. It was a status symbol, he supposed, a little like his wife had been.

  Sierra, he realized with a start, was like his West Van cottage. Modest on the outside but real and comfortable in the way his favorite things always were.

  He drove down the winding road that led to his place and a feeling of utter contentment stole over him. He loved this place and bringing this woman to it felt right.

  He pulled into the little wooden shed that was the one-car garage, killed the engine and led her out and down the path to his house.

  It didn’t show at its best on a damp spring evening and even the ocean seemed kind of sullen and not inclined to show off for his guest. But the lights shone across English Bay in the Point Grey homes and the waves lapping against the rocky beach played their usual haunting music.

  “Oh, Jarrad,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I’ll show you the best part first,” he said, very much hoping her words confirmed her as the ocean lover he was.

  He took her hand, so small and fine-boned that he immediately loosened his grip, he was so scared of hurting her, and walked around to the front, where a previous owner had built a deck almost as big as the house. Half of it was covered by a glass awning so you could sit out, as he often did, and watch the storms. He turned on the outside heater and together they looked over the sea. He heard her breathe in deeply. “I love it here,” she said.

  “So do I. It’s a special place.”

  She shivered slightly and he stepped behind her, putting his arms around her, pulling her against him. She was trim and shapely. Not a hard body, by any means, but soft, womanly.

  He held her like that for a while, his chin just resting on the top of her head, breathing in the scent of the ocean, and of her.

  After a bit she turned and lifted her face in mute invitation. Which he took immediate advantage of, bending to kiss her. Her lips were warm and tasted sweet against the tang of rain-tinged salt air, and when he pulled her in closer, she slid her arms up around his neck, kissing him back with passion. He loved her contrasts, the shy schoolteacher one minute and the bold, sexy woman the next.

  They kissed for a while until they were both panting louder than the ocean, and she wrapped one leg around him, rubbing the back of his calf with her high heel. The gesture was so spontaneous he wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

  “Would you like the full tour?” he murmured.

  “Oh, yes,” she said against his mouth.

  He took her hand and led her inside. He flipped on a light and as he tried to see the room through her eyes, wondered if he should have hired a decorator. But she smiled. “I would have imagined that your living room would be all big-screen TV and, I don’t know, hockey trophies.”

  “TV’s behind there,” he said, pointing to the rustic cabinet he’d bought when he first got the place. Of course, the TV hidden behind the distressed wooden doors wasn’t exactly puny and it was plasma, but he didn’t bother to explain all that.

  For the rest, he’d bought most of the furniture from the old couple who were selling the place. It was sturdy and to his uneducated eye he thought it all went with the place. He still thought so. The furniture was wooden-framed, a lot of it made by the previous owner
out of driftwood, with all the upholstery in blues.

  “It’s so rustic, but real, you know?” she said.

  “Yeah.” Exactly what he’d always thought.

  He showed her where the bathroom was and the kitchen, which really did need a reno, even though he kind of liked the scarred old Formica counters and light oak cupboards.

  Then he pointed to the closed doors that were his office (even though he didn’t do any work) and guest bedroom (even though he didn’t have any guests).

  He really didn’t want to play tour guide any more. He wanted her in his bed. And badly.

  With that thought in mind, he said, “And here’s my bedroom.” And he led her through the main room to his bedroom. He felt her hesitate on the threshold, her hand going suddenly rigid in his. She was so sweet, he couldn’t help himself from turning to nibble on her lips, to kiss her until the rigidity left her body and the passionate woman was back in his arms.

  He led her forward into the room and she pulled away from him to say, “Oh, how beautiful.” She wasn’t referring to the original artwork he’d bought at some charity auction, but to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He could watch the ocean from his bed all day and all night. It was probably the main reason he’d bought the place.

  The bed and bedding were his only nod to true luxury. He figured with the beating his body had taken over the years, a great bed was a necessity. And if Egypt had been picked clean of cotton so he could enjoy bedding that had cost more than his first car, then he was sorry, but he definitely enjoyed the comfort.

  He turned down the bed, then drew her forward. She was smiling, but he could sense her shyness. He had no idea what her background or her story was, but he knew quite suddenly that he had to treat her carefully. Take it slowly.

  “You know what I thought about over dinner?” he asked, nibbling her lips, then kissing her thoroughly.

  “What?”