Face-Off (11 page)

“I
CAN'T DO THIS.
I can't.” Taylor sat slumped in a chair at the pub above the rinks. He'd bumped into Jarrad who had cheerfully offered to buy him a beer. But there wasn't enough beer in Canada to drown the feeling of dread in his belly. “I have to lift this girl over my head. All I can see is me dropping her and her splatting on the ice like roadkill. And there go my chances of getting into the NHL.”

“Not to mention you'll have killed or maimed one of Canada's sports icons. Becky Haines's fans will tear you apart.”

“Appreciate the pep talk, bro. Thanks.” He took a huge gulp of beer. And almost spat it out when the Woman He Most Didn't Want to Waltz With (on ice or off) walked into the pub.

Jarrad must have seen his eyes bug out of his head for he turned to follow his gaze.

“She's cute,” Jarrad said in a low voice.

“She's a pint-sized skating devil,” he replied.

Becky hadn't seen him yet. Maybe he'd be lucky and she'd miss him. He slumped lower in his seat.

At the bar she put in an order, then flashed a smile of
thanks when the bartender handed her a drink. Long and sparkling, with a chunk of lemon hanging off the rim.

She turned and scanned the room and he transferred his attention to his beer. He knew the second she saw him, he felt her go still, almost heard the wheels turning in her brain whether to acknowledge him or not.

She obviously went with yes, because he saw her move toward him in his peripheral vision. He wished for one moment that he had Jarrad's vision issues so he wouldn't have to see her.

He raised his head. Feigned surprise. “Becky. Hi.”

She was dressed in jeans and a sweater, stylish boots. Her hair was loose and she wore makeup. She was prettier than he'd believed possible.

For a second they stared at each other. He couldn't think of one thing to say.

His brother's voice broke the silence. “Becky Haines. Jarrad McBride. I'm a big fan.”

The smile she had for his brother was friendly and easy. None of the ice chips that he was offered.

“I'm a fan of yours, too,” she said as they shook hands. “I'll never forget the game against the Islanders when you scored that hat trick. I cheered so loud I was hoarse.”

“Please, join us,” Mr. Charm said.

“Thanks.”

She sat down and then Big J joined the mutual admiration society, rhapsodizing about her silver-medal performance at the winter Olympics.

“Why don't you two get a room?” he muttered.

“Pardon?” Becky said.

“He said, ‘You should have a gold medal hanging in your room,'” Jarrad hastily said.

“Hmm.” He could tell she didn't believe it. She'd probably heard him fine. Jarrad was giving him the don't-be-
a-tool look, but he couldn't seem to help himself. This woman got under his skin and made him snarly.

Jarrad offered her the dish of peanuts even though it was right there on the table. She shook her head.

She'd already drained half her drink. “Can I get you another?” his brother asked as if he was suddenly a waiter.

“Sure. Mineral water and lemon.”

“I can't get you anything stronger?”

“I never drink alcohol when I'm training.” She glanced pointedly at Taylor's half-finished beer.

He immediately drained his glass. “I'll have another pint.” Even though he usually only drank one. He waved the empty mug in the air. “An even half dozen should do it. Thanks, bro.”

Jarrad shook his head and ambled off to the bar.

He gestured to Becky's nearly empty glass. “So, you don't drink?” He pointed to the peanuts she'd refused. “Don't indulge in junk food.” He shook his head at her. “Do you do anything for fun?”

“Fun?” She looked at him as though she'd never heard the word before. “Do you have any idea how tough the competition is in my world? The tiniest training error, the second of distraction makes the difference between a medal and falling flat on my ass during a competition. No. I don't drink. And I don't eat half the foods I love. Like ice cream and chips. I can't remember what it feels like to sleep in as long as I like, or have a whole day with nothing to do but laze around. I don't have a team who will cover for me if I flub up on the ice. I'm it. A lot of people rely on me. So no. I don't drink or snarf down peanuts in a bar.”

He felt stupid. Why had he been trying to provoke her?
He understood discipline, admired it, though she probably wouldn't believe him.

Her edge was just so sharp around him. And he found he wanted to soften that hardness a little bit, especially if they were going to be stuck rehearsing together for weeks.

He glanced at her, caught her looking at him with contempt and wondered how they were ever going to get through this.

When Jarrad returned with the drinks, she smiled at him, much more warmly than anything Taylor had ever seen sent his way.

They chatted for a while about nothing much. Jarrad was a lot better at making conversation than he was and soon had Becky giggling at some of the exploits he'd got up to in L.A. Which sounded a lot more fun than anything Taylor ever did.

He noticed that Becky kept glancing around the room. Finally, he said, “You expecting someone?”

She nodded. Turned to him and said, “My—my boyfriend. He's supposed to pick me up, but he's late.” She glanced at her watch. “And I need to get going. I've got an early start in the morning.” She stood, hoisted her bag over her shoulder. “Thanks for the drink.”

Jarrad said, “You need a ride home?”

“No, that's—”

“I'll drive you,” came out of Taylor's mouth before he had time to think. He stood up. “I need to get going too.”

“Thanks, but if you've had six beers you should take a cab.”

Jarrad laughed. “Taylor never has more than one. He's famous for it.” He glanced between the two of them, amusement deep in his eyes. “He likes to kid around.”

“Oh.” She seemed uncertain.

Taylor cracked a grin. Couldn't seem to help himself. “My big brother there can also tell you I'm a good driver. Come on, I'll take good care of you.”

“All right. Thanks.”

She lived in North Vancouver, a surprisingly suburban location he thought, but managed not to say. Maybe she lived with her folks. Or her boyfriend. He didn't like that idea so he put it out of his head.

There wasn't much conversation on the ride. He couldn't think of anything to say, and she didn't seem too interested in talking to him, either.

The next few weeks were going to be a nightmare. The idea flicked across his mind that he could tell Jeremy the deal was off, and they should find somebody else to make a fool of themselves with Becky Haines, but even as the idea materialized he dismissed it. He didn't want to analyze why, but he had no intention of letting some other beefy jock prance around the ice with her.

He pulled up in front of a house that he figured was west-coast contemporary, all cedar and glass in a neighborhood of upscale family homes and she said, “Thanks for the ride.”

“You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow.”

They spoke at the same moment. “Look,” she said, “this was a stupid idea. I'll tell Irina to design a simpler—”

At the same time, he said, “Would you go out dancing with me?”

He knew she'd heard him when she stopped talking in midsentence and stared. Finally she said, “Did you just ask me out?”

“Yes.” Wait a minute, had he? “No.” He didn't know what the hell he was doing. “I mean, I think we might do
better if we went dancing somewhere without coaches or ice or this charity appearance looming over us.” He shrugged, “You can bring your boyfriend if you want.”

B
OYFRIEND?
W
HAT BOYFRIEND?
Becky stared at Taylor, dazed, until she recalled her stupid blurted comment about having a boyfriend. As if she had time. But somehow Taylor's insults about her having no life had worked under her skin and irritated her to the point that she'd invented a love life. Anything to stop from sounding as if she had no life outside skating. Even though it was true.

And, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she wanted some barrier between her and the—what could she call it? Not attraction to him.

She could not be attracted to a guy who was all muscle and no brain, who hadn't become successful through years of grueling effort and iron self-discipline, the way she had, but who'd managed to be born the brother of one of the most famous hockey players in the NHL and hitched himself an easy ride to fame and fortune.

No. She could never be attracted to someone like that. It was probably some kind of hormonal imbalance that made him seem so alluring. So she'd keep him at arm's length with the fictitious boyfriend.

“I don't think…” she began.

A tiny smile began to play around his mouth. He was
too good-looking, that was another problem with Taylor McBride. Way. Too. Good. Looking.

“Scared I'll step all over your toes?”

“No, it's just that—”

“Come on. I thought you were a girl who loved a challenge. Do you really want to go out there and look stupid? Or do you want to give the crowd a great show?”

“I—” She licked her lips. This was a stupid idea. Stupid, stupid. Going out dancing with him was much too close to a date. And she had this weakness for men with blue-green eyes, craggy noses and dimples. Honest-to-goodness dimples, which she hadn't noticed until he smiled at her.

“When?”

“Tomorrow night?”

She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Pick you up at seven.”

“Fine.”

He grinned at her. “I'll try not to stomp on your toes.”

“Don't worry. I'll be wearing steel-toed boots.”

The last sound she heard as he drove away was his laughter.

She let herself into her house. The one that was such a good investment situated as it was in North Vancouver, halfway up a mountain. When her parents and she had toured the house with the real-estate agent, she'd agreed with all of them that this house was a place she could grow into. Raise a family.

“You don't want to waste that nice sponsorship money on anything frivolous,” her accountant father had warned.

And, because she appreciated how much her folks
had sacrificed in order for her to follow her dream, and because he was so smart about money, she agreed.

She did like the house. A west-coast contemporary made of cedar and glass tucked in a wooded cul-de-sac, the house was much bigger than she needed, big enough that she'd been able to install her own dance studio in the basement, and leave two of the four bedrooms empty. Trouble was, she didn't have a family. She was a single woman living in suburbia.

At twenty-three she wasn't all that interested in home maintenance and gardening. She worked so hard at her sport that she sometimes wished she could flop on the couch in a nice small condo, preferably something downtown so she could spend her limited free time having fun.

For some reason, the word
fun
conjured up the image of Taylor McBride. Big and gorgeous and seemingly clueless as to how lucky he was to have been born with Jarrad for a big brother.

He wasn't her type at all, and yet she had to admit there was a strange kind of chemistry between them. She both dreaded and anticipated their evening out dancing.

The message light on her phone was blinking but she didn't knock herself out checking who'd called. She was pretty sure she knew.

After eating a meal off her menu plan, a grilled fillet of salmon with brown rice and spinach, and a big salad, she settled herself on the couch and picked up her messages.

As she'd suspected, there was a message from her mom. Cindy Haines was a bit of a control freak and it had been a struggle for her to accept that Becky needed to be in Vancouver in order to train with her coach. Sure there were great coaches in the Toronto area, where her family
lived, but Irina lived in Vancouver and wouldn't budge for love or money. And Irina was the coach Becky needed.

Since she couldn't see her daughter every day, Cindy called every day. Becky loved her mom, but sometimes she fantasized about going an entire week without feeling required to give her mother a full accounting of her activities.

Every time she tried to get tough, she remembered all the times Cindy had hauled herself out of bed in the cold dark of winter and driven her to the rink for a 5:00 a.m. practice before school. All the costumes she'd provided, the skates, the expensive lessons, the trips for competitions. And so she returned the call.

Strangely enough, when she got off the phone she realized she hadn't once mentioned Taylor. Or the upcoming charity event.

 

T
AYLOR PICKED HER UP
for their dancing date a few minutes early, which she considered a good sign.

He'd dressed not like the slob he usually was, but like a sophisticated man, in a suit, no less, and his shoes were either brand-new or he'd polished them.

She wore a black cocktail dress with big silver jewelry and heeled dancing shoes.

He appeared so different in the formal clothes, and the feeling of strangeness continued as he brought out a set of good manners she wouldn't have known him to possess—opening her car door and helping her out as though she were precious royalty.

The dance club was dimly lit, for which she was grateful. Not that she was a particularly recognizable celebrity for anyone but figure skating fans, but she was known.

They settled at a quiet table in a corner where she
ordered a club soda while he had a beer. A band was playing hits from the forties.

They chatted for a few minutes about nothing and suddenly he leaned forward and captured her hand in his. “Come on. Let's dance.”

“Okay.”

Somehow she'd known it would be like this when they touched. His hands, discreetly and properly placed, one clasping her hand and the other resting at her waist, felt warm and intimate. When he pulled her close, she smelled his skin and knew he could smell hers.

It wasn't that she spent a lot of time sniffing men, but something about the way Taylor smelled made her want to bury her nose in his neck.

The beat of the music was strong and insistent and it was clear that his lessons had worked better on dry land. Either that or he'd spent the past twenty-four hours practicing. She liked the confident way he maneuvered her around the crowded floor, the way his cheek brushed hers.

She found her feet moving and her blood pounding to the same rhythm. She wouldn't look into his eyes, that would be too dangerous, so she kept her gaze on the hollow of his throat below his Adam's apple, where his pulse beat slow and steady.

At twenty-three she'd had men in her life. A couple of well-publicized romances, one with another skater who was such an egomaniac she quickly grew tired of him, and one with a young Canadian actor who was trying to gain a name for himself. She'd known all along that he liked her as much for the press she brought him as for herself and when it ended she hadn't cried many tears. The truth was she put so much physical energy into her skating, that she didn't have much left for a man, or for sex.

Until now.

Had she ever felt so hot for anyone in such a short time as she suddenly felt for Taylor? No. Her relationships followed a certain predictable pattern. A few get-to-know-you dates, some kissing, and usually by then she knew if she wanted the man in her bed or not. Taking her time was important, not only for her personality but for her career. The last thing she needed was for some guy to blab private details to
eChat Canada.
So, she took her time, made sure she controlled things. All of which left her less likely to end up with a failure on her hands than someone who blundered blindly into relationships.

Dancing with Taylor, simply dancing with the man on a crowded floor, felt like throwing out all her careful methods and rushing blindly into an affair.

How had he done it?

She'd come along thinking they'd fumble around the dance floor, he'd step on her toes or bump into other couples and she'd end up giving him a lesson.

Instead, she was with this self-assured almost-stranger who had the most amazing body and the most delicious way of touching her. This was a fox-trot, for heaven's sake, not some dirty-dancing bump-and-grind, but the effect on her senses of moving with him filled her mind with images of the two of them naked and moving together.

Because this wasn't dancing. It was foreplay. Somehow this man had gone from being a barely tolerated boor to the sexiest ballroom dancer around.

Their fellow dancers were an assorted bunch. You could spot right away the older couples who'd been taking dance lessons and liked to show off their moves, and those who came because they liked big-band music, and there were a sprinkling of younger dancers too, out having a good
time, taking an old-fashioned dance medium and making it new.

Taylor's big body pressed against hers as the floor grew more crowded and she felt the pulse beat of desire grow stronger.

“Did I tell you that you look beautiful tonight?” he said softly against her hair. The mere whisper of his breath stirring the tendrils was like an electric charge.

“Thank you.”

Their bodies brushed as they moved, she felt the heat coming off him and her skin grew as sensitive as though he were caressing her. She heard her breathing change to the lighter, quicker breaths of arousal. What was wrong with her?

The music changed to a slow waltz. He twirled her around the floor and she thought how well-suited they were and what a surprise that was.

When the music ended, she was breathing rapidly and knew it had nothing to do with physical exertion.

Amid the applause for the band, he leaned his forehead against hers. “I think we've got this dancing thing down.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You want to take a walk?” he asked, suddenly, huskily. She nodded. If he'd asked her to go home to his place and throw off all her clothes she thought she'd have nodded to that too.

They returned to their table where Taylor threw money down and then took her hand and led her out into the night. The sudden rush of cold air hit her, energizing her.

There was a current humming between their joined hands that both stimulated and unnerved her. Determined to get some idea of who he was before launching herself
into his bed—assuming he was thinking about it as much as she—she marshaled her thoughts.

Behind them a quartet of Japanese girls giggled and shot each other with digital cameras.

What exactly did she know about this man her body wanted to jump all over naked, she wondered. Next to nothing.

Pull yourself together, Becks,
she chided herself.
Where's your sense? Stay in control.

They walked a little farther and she tried to take in the atmosphere of her adopted city at night; the tanker ships in the harbor twinkling with lights, across the water the north shore all lit up and the ski runs of Grouse Mountain stretching like a sparkling necklace. Her heels tapped on the sidewalks and she found this man beside her clogging all her senses.

He looked, felt, smelled and sounded delicious. She hadn't tasted him yet, but every part of her knew it wouldn't be long.

“Everyone knows about your brother, but nobody knows anything about you,” she said, deciding to come right out and ask. “What's your story?”

He glanced down at her and his eyes glistened as they passed under a streetlamp.

“My story's still being written,” he said, tightening his hold on her hand ever so slightly. “I hope you'll be a part of it.”

Oh, come on. What was she, stupid to fall for this practiced seduction? “That's not much of an answer.”

“Oh, I'll tell you anything. Everything,” he said, running a fingertip down the slope of her cheek. She shivered, feeling the finger trace its path like a single raindrop.