Praise for USA Today bestselling author Nancy Warren!

“Cleverly written with wonderfully drawn characters, humor and great sex all make Under the Influence a winner.” —RT Book Reviews Top Pick!

“Too Hot to Handle is funny, sexy and romantic. I loved it.” —RT Book Reviews.

“Too Hot To Handle is a great read. Nancy Warren is firmly on my must-read-more-by-this-author list … If you want to read romance with a contemporary feel, try Blaze®.” —Rike Horstmann All About Romance. Desert Isle Keeper review

“Under the Influence is a fun, sexy and refreshingly modern version of the classic tale of opposites attracting.” —Katie Mack, All About Romance, Desert Isle Keeper review

“Nancy Warren is definitely on ‘my authors to watch’ list. Karen and Dex are characters that you instantly fall in love with. Dex is the man you want in your bed. Ladies, he knows his woman well—her likes, dislikes, wants, and needs. Now that’s a man we want.”

—Fresh Fiction review of The Ex Factor

“This wonderful story has everything the reader could want—hot sex, laughter and truths that hit home.”

—RT Book Reviews on Powerplay

Dear Reader,

Back when I used to be a freelance journalist, one of my jobs was to interview every one of the Vancouver Canucks for a feature in their magazine. It was a great gig. I got to meet the players and often their wives and families in their homes and really got a sneak peek at what their lives are like off the ice and out of the spotlight. The truth? Most of them were nice family men who happen to have a really great job. Oh, yeah, they were also fit, tall and hot!

When I came to write Face-Off I wanted to give a sense of a hockey family, so I created two smoking hot hockey-playing brothers and a sister who’s always had to be a little bit tough to keep up with them. Naturally, each of them will be challenged both on and off the ice as they face their fears and find love—whether they are looking for it or not.

I hope you enjoy Face-Off. As always, I love to hear from you. Come visit me on the web at http://www.nancywarren.net

Happy reading,

Nancy Warren

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author NANCY WARREN lives in the Pacific Northwest, where her hobbies include walking her border collie in the rain and following her favorite hockey team. She’s the author of more than thirty novels and novellas and has won numerous awards. Visit her website at www.nancywarren.net

Face-Off

Nancy Warren

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For my very own Knight in (sometimes) shining armor. With love.

Ice Time

1

“ONE MORE TIME, BIG J, scrape that blade down your face and look into the camera like this is the greatest shave of your life,” the enthusiastic director instructed him as though this was the first take of the shaving commercial and not the eighth.

Jarrad McBride experienced a flash of annoyance. He knew the guy was only doing his job, but he hated being called Big J. It was a hockey-player nickname, and he wasn’t a hockey player anymore. What he was, was a guy who peddled shaving cream and toothpaste on TV. He had no idea why anybody would buy shaving cream ’cause a guy who used to shoot pucks down the ice appeared on their flat screen and told them to, but he’d long ago worked out that the world was a crazy place, and L.A. was the epicenter of crazy.

“If you keep him lathered up much longer he’s going to get a rash,” Lester Salisbury said. Lester was his manager and the reason for all these “promotional opportunities.” He was smart and knew Jarrad well enough that he’d picked up on the annoyance, even if he’d misinterpreted the cause.

“That’s okay, Les. If I got paid this much money every time I shaved, I’d be a wealthy man.”

“You’re already a wealthy man,” Les reminded him as the young woman whose job it was to display the cream to best advantage on his face danced up and smoothed the edges with careful finger swirls as though she was icing a cake.

She was pretty, with flyaway blond hair and innocent blue eyes. Jarrad should hit on her, he knew that. Partly because of his reputation and also because of the way she’d shot a couple of half scared, half hopeful glances at him; she obviously expected it. He didn’t want to let her down, but he really didn’t have the energy.

Still, he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Thanks, Jill,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “You remembered my name?”

In fact, he had a great memory, he remembered the names of a lot of people he’d like to forget as well as his near and dear, and when people drifted in and out of his life—as an astonishing number seemed to do—he tried to pay attention at least while they were in his orbit.

Jill seemed like a nice enough girl, but he could see she’d bore him in an evening. He suspected that if she didn’t get hit on by a guy of his reputation, she’d take it the wrong way. “How could I forget someone who takes care of me so well,” he said, smiling. Then, for the ninth time, he picked up the razor and stared into the movie camera.

Todd, the director, said, “And three, and two and one,” and on cue Jarrad scraped the blade slowly down his face.

“Great,” Todd said with as much enthusiasm as if he’d just played Hamlet on Broadway to a standing ovation. “Now, we’ll get you shaved and then we’ll do your speaking part.” Jill toweled the white stuff off his face.

A professional barber was waiting for him in the film studio’s dressing room. Personally, he thought it was cheating to pretend that one brand of shaving cream could give as good a look as a pro, but, as Les often reminded him, nobody paid him to think.

“Looking good, buddy,” his manager said as he walked him down the hall.

Once he’d been shaved, moisturized and hair-styled, the makeup woman tried to dab makeup on his scar, but he put up a hand to stop her. “That scar’s my trademark, honey. You cover that up, people’ll wonder what else you’re hiding.”

Luckily, Todd sided with him, so he was allowed to finish the shoot looking at least a little bit like himself.

The enthusiasm was as thick as the shaving cream when the director prepared him for his pitch. “Remember, you believe in this product. When you say your lines, think about something that really excites you.”

“Okay.” Sounded easy enough to think of something that excited him. He searched. His mind was blank. He could think about sex but that only reminded him of the tabloid pictures of his ex-wife cavorting in Belize, letting the world know she’d traded up to the NBA.

He could think about his bank balance, but he knew he’d never be able to spend all his money no matter how long he lived, which for some reason made him wonder how old he’d be when he kicked it. Another uninspiring thought.

Most of his greatest moments had happened in hockey rinks, but his retirement was still too raw, too unexpected. His mind veered away.

Finally he moved back to childhood, settled on a memory of going to the pound and picking out a puppy when he was a kid. He and his sister both went, his baby brother not being thought of yet, and even though they argued about everything, they’d instantly agreed on the eager-looking young black Lab who’d squirmed and danced with excitement at their visit, licking their faces and making them all laugh. He’d wanted to call the dog Lucky, Samantha argued for Lucy and somehow they ended up calling the dog Fred.

Maybe if he thought hard enough about Fred he could forget that this shaving cream dialogue was butt-awful.

While Fred galloped through his memory, racing after a Frisbee, stick, ball, puck, rock, sock, pretty much anything that moved, Jarrad looked right into that big square camera, ignoring the camera operator, the beaming director, his hovering manager, the lighting guy, the sound guy and the gophers. He saw Fred leap into the air, teeth closing on a badly chewed and mangled red Frisbee, his black body wriggling in happiness and said, “A perfect shave is like a skating rink right before the action. Smooth, clean, cool. Like my shaving cream.” As instructed he now glanced at the blue canister in his hand and back at the camera. “Ice.”

He’d refused to let them film him anywhere near a hockey rink or the equipment of a game he could no longer play. Instead, they’d hired a good-looking female model and shot the pair of them supposedly heading out for a night on the town. They’d already shot all that stuff earlier. Once Todd was happy with his one line, he’d be out of here.

It took two more tries, and Fred dragged rocks out of the creek down by their old house before Todd called it a wrap.

He shook hands with everybody, flirted with the shaving cream girl a little bit more, and finally he and Les were free. As they hit the pavement both pulled out similar black shades and slipped them on against the glare of an endlessly sunny L.A. day. “Two days to film a thirty-second commercial?” he complained, as though he’d never done one before.

“I should make your hourly wage,” Les said.

“It was boring.”

Les patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. “I know it’s tough now that you’ve had to hang up your skates. And stuff.” A delicate silence hung in the air, but they both knew that and stuff referred to his ex making a fool of him in public. “You have to do something with your time,” he reminded him.

And that was the problem.

He’d have countered with some smart-assed remark except that his new smart phone rang. And call display told him it was somebody he actually wanted to talk to. Unlike Les, on the subject of what he was going to do with his life.

“I was just thinking about Fred,” he said into the phone, waving goodbye to his agent as he did so.

Greg Olsen, his oldest friend in the world laughed. “He was the greatest dog. Except that he ran off with all our baseballs.”

Jarrad adjusted his shades against the neverending sunshine of L.A. He still missed real winters and, amazingly enough, he even missed the Vancouver rain. “So, what’s up? How’s cop business?”

Greg ignored the question. “I saw eChat Canada last night.”

“Since when do you watch entertainment porn?”

“Since your ex is making a fool of you with some seven-foot-tall ball jockey. She flashed a big engagement rock on TV.”

It wasn’t sadness or grief that made his teeth clench on his expensive dental work, it was the humiliation of being reminded he’d been that stupid. Dumb enough to fall for the face and body that were as fake as the nice-girl routine. “Don’t worry about it. I’m over her. And you never liked her.”

“Dude, nobody liked her.”

“Yeah, call it my L.A. phase, hang around movie stars, marry a swimsuit model, get a house with a pool, start—”

“I’m glad you said that,” his oldest friend interrupted. “L.A. was a phase. It’s not you.”

Even as he accepted that his friend was right, he wondered if he even knew what he was anymore. Or where he belonged.

“I need you to come home.”

“What are you talking about? Is somebody sick? In trouble?”

“No. But here’s the thing. I need you, man.”

“What, you’re gay now?”

“Funny. No. It’s the big league game.”

“Big league” only meant one thing to Jarrad. NHL. From which he was forever barred. He shook his head. His thinking was hardly ever muddled anymore. Mostly, the only effect of the career-ending hit he’d taken was that he’d lost his peripheral vision. He wasn’t Big J anymore. He was an unemployed thirty-five-year-old man who had no idea what he was going to do with the rest of his life apart from shaving in public on camera. “Big league?”

“The World Police and Firefighter Games hockey championship,” Greg said in a “duh” tone, as though there could be no other league of any importance.

“Right. Sure. Ah, if you want a ringer, I can’t play hockey anymore. You know that.”

“You can’t catch crooks or fight fires, either. I don’t want you on the team.”

“Then what do you want?”

Jarrad beeped open the doors of his overpriced luxury sports car.

“We’re the worst team in the league. It’s humiliating. We have this big rivalry going with Portland and what we need is a coach. They told me I was crazy to try, but me and the boys, well, we want you to coach us.”

Jarrad damned near dropped his fancy new phone. He’d thought shooting shaving cream commercials was as low as he was going to fall. But coaching a bunch of cops and firefighters for an amateur hockey league?

“I don’t know how to coach,” he said, playing for time.

“Sure you do. You can play, can’t you? So practice your coaching skills on us. We’re not paying you, so we can’t complain.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty busy.”

“No, you’re not. You’re sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”

He could argue the point, but Greg wouldn’t be fooled.

“I need to think about it.”

“Come home, do a good thing. Get your life back.”

“I can’t.”

“Think about it.”

“I’m heading out into traffic,” he lied. “Gotta go.” And he flipped shut the phone. Then he got slowly into the car, let the hum of the engine and the air-conditioning system—which constantly adjusted itself to his preferred temperature—soothe him.

As if he’d go home to his rain-soaked town and coach a bunch of amateurs. Home. He wasn’t sure if it was the images of Fred or the call from Greg, but suddenly he felt a twinge of homesickness. Which was weird. He used to go back a lot when his dad was alive, but Art McBride had died a couple of years back from a sudden heart attack. Shortly after that, his mom had moved to Vancouver Island. A nurse, she’d taken a demanding hospital position, which all the family understood was her way of dealing with the grief and loneliness.

Vancouver in February was cold, rainy and dreary, he reminded himself as the sun beat against his expensive shades and the engine purred obediently beneath him.

He headed out the coast road to his Malibu home. He’d grab a swim, call up a nice woman and go get some dinner. Enjoy the riches life had so generously given him. So he couldn’t play hockey anymore. Big deal. He’d figure out something to do with the time hanging heavy on his hands.

Sam, his younger sister by three years, was busy with her law practice. Even though she bugged him all the time to leave L.A. and move back home, she had a full life. It wasn’t as if she needed him.

And Taylor, the youngest McBride, was too busy trying to take the McBride spot in the NHL to have much time for his older, washed-up brother.

Be great to see them, though. Maybe he’d fly up for a quick weekend. See the family and a few old friends. Maybe when the weather was better.

But as his house came into view, he realized that his old buddy, Greg, wasn’t the only one who wondered how he was doing now that his ex-wife was engaged to a new victim.

Paparazzi clogged the gated entrance to his home like rats packing a sewer.

He swore under his breath. Didn’t stop to think. He swung the car around in a tight U and sped away from his own house cursing aloud.

A couple of miles down the road, he pulled over. Even in the perfectly controlled air-conditioning he was sweating. He knew from experience that for the few days he and his ex and her new guy were the love triangle du jour, he’d get no peace.

He didn’t want to answer questions.

He didn’t want to pretend everything was okay.

He didn’t want to find himself stalked by cameras as he tried to go about his business.

Damn it, and damn Greg for knowing him so well. He wanted to go home.

He called his assistant to book him a flight to Vancouver and then he called Greg.

“I’ll be there Monday. Where do you practice and what time?”

2

“COME ON, IT’LL BE FUN,” Tamson insisted as Sierra Janssen hesitated on the brink of the ice rink.

“Fun for you, watching me fall on my butt in the cold. It’s seven in the morning on a Saturday, my day off. I should be sleeping in.”

“None of us are great skaters. Who cares? We get some exercise, laugh a lot and it turns out that there’s a team of firefighters and cops practicing in the next rink. Being here is much better than sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”

But Sierra wasn’t sure that sitting around feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t, in fact, be more fun than attempting to play hockey when she hadn’t skated in years. It was cold in here and smelled like old sweat socks. Colorful pennants hung from the impossibly high rafters boasting of wins and league championships. She’d passed a glass case of trophies telling similar stories. For some reason the word league only reminded her of Michael, who had been so far out of her league she’d never had a chance. What had a successful, handsome brain surgeon wanted with a grade-two schoolteacher who, on her best days, could only be termed cute. A good day at work for Michael was bringing someone out of a coma, cutting tumors out of brains. Her idea of success was getting seven-year-olds to put up their hands before asking a question.

No wonder he’d left her for an intern. In her bitter moments she thought it would have been nice if he’d had the courtesy to dump her first and not leave her to find out he was cheating in the most humiliating way. He’d sent her the hottest email. A sexual scorcher that left her eyes bugged open, it was so unlike him. He’d even used a pet name he’d never called her before. It wasn’t until she’d read the email through a second time that she realized Jamie wasn’t a pet name. It was the actual name of another woman. Who was clearly a lot wilder in bed than she would ever be.

The woman was training to be a doctor, scorching-hot in bed, a much better match for Michael.

She gritted her teeth. Okay, so her heart was broken. Tamson was right. She had to get out and embrace life, not sit around watching it happen to other people.

She’d loved skating when she was a kid. This would be fine. A fun league for women, no stress, she’d pick up her skating skills. Learn to play hockey. She’d played field hockey in high school and she’d been pretty darn good. What could be better?

She stepped a skate gingerly onto the ice. Hung on to the boards, stepped the other skate down.

Had the ice been this slippery when she was a child? Her ankles wobbled alarmingly in her rented skates and the padding she’d borrowed from her brother made her feel like the Michelin Man. On skates.

When she wobbled her way down the ice, holding her brother’s old hockey stick, since he wouldn’t trust her with his good one, joining the other women who were warming up, she realized that even here, in this fun hockey team for women, she was outclassed.

She was the only one who had to look at her skates to stay on the ice. And what she saw was that her legs were wide apart and she couldn’t help but hold her arms out wide to stop herself from falling.

Somebody blew a whistle. “Okay, girls. Gather round.”

JARRAD STOOD AT THE EDGE of the ice and realized his old buddy hadn’t lied about the team. These guys were all over the place. Sure, some of them could skate, and the men were all fit, but there was no sense of teamwork, no idea how to sense where the puck was headed and what to do about it.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was even doing here.

He was observing, he reminded himself, only observing. And what he observed didn’t fill him with confidence in the team. He hadn’t agreed to coach yet, maybe he’d take a pass.

“I’m going for a walk,” he said to a grizzled old Norwegian who answered to Sig and was the closest thing to a coach the team currently had.

Sig nodded. “They’re good guys, you know?”

“Sure. Probably great cops and firefighters, too.” But any fool with functioning eyesight could see that getting this ragged bunch of men into shape as a team was going to take time, not to mention hard work and coaching skills Jarrad doubted he possessed. He wasn’t sure there was enough time before the big league play-offs to get them into shape.

He stuffed his hands in his jeans and wandered. He’d spent so much of his life inside hockey rinks that he probably felt more comfortable in one than anywhere else on earth. He loved everything about the rink. The way it smelled like the inside of a fridge, the sound of skate blades scraping across ice, putting the first groove into the perfect surface right after the Zamboni finished. The guys. The team.

But there weren’t skates on his feet now. And it wasn’t him on the ice.

His sneakers were soundless as he headed down the hallway. At the next rink over he stopped to peer through the glass doors, and what he saw made him smile, genuinely smile, for the first time in months.

Without thinking, he opened the door and slipped inside.

On the ice was a group of women, ranging, he guessed from their twenties to their forties, all clad in mismatched hockey gear and helmets. This group made his firefighters seem like the hottest team in the NHL.

“You’ve got a breakaway. Sierra. Go!”

And he watched as a puck made its lazy way up the ice, at about the speed of a curling rock, and a slim young woman skated straight over to the boards and started up the rink.

She had to guess the direction of the puck, since she never took her eyes off her skates.

He moved closer. Put a foot up on a bench to watch. The breakaway got way past the cutie near the boards, and the goalie managed to stop it.

A whistle blew.

“Okay. Great work, ladies. See you all on Thursday.”

And they all headed off the rink.

Except the woman with the breakaway. None of the other women had noticed she was now clinging to the boards like a burr to a dog. He got the feeling she was scared.

He gave her a minute and when she still hadn’t budged, he stepped onto the ice.

Walked over to her.

“Hi,” he said. “You need a hand?”

When her face turned up he felt a kind of shock travel through his system. He was so used to tanned bombshells that he’d forgotten how soft and pretty a woman could look. Beneath the helmet she had big blue eyes and pale skin. Blond hair that had picked up some static from the cold and was levitating in places.

“I don’t think hockey’s for me,” she said.

He took the stick out of her hand and shot it across the ice toward the exit gate.

“Then you should probably get off the ice.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

He held out his hands, palms up. “Come on. Take my hand. I’ll get you out of here.”

She looked up at him. “What if we both fall?”

“I won’t let you fall.”

After thinking about it for a second, she gave him one hand.

“Your glove is too big,” he said, feeling the smallness of her hands inside the huge mitt.

“I know. I borrowed all this stuff from my brother. Except for the skates.”

“May I?” and without waiting for an answer, he pulled off her glove. And took her hand. Which was as small and soft as the rest of her seemed to be.

Once she knew he had her and he wasn’t about to take her down, she held out her other hand. He pulled off the other glove, sent the pair skidding to join the stick, and then while she hung on with a death grip, walked slowly backward, sliding her along with him. “That’s it.”

Her cheeks were pink with cold and he sensed that, like her hands in those gloves, her body inside the padding was much smaller. “You need some equipment that fits you.”

“No, I don’t. I am done with hockey.”

He laughed easily. Something he hadn’t done in so long he’d almost forgotten the sound.

“I’m a coach. I could help you.”

“That’s sweet of you, but—”

“And here’s your first lesson. Stop looking at your feet.”

“But—”

“It’s like dancing. You have to trust your body.”

She glanced up, took a deep breath and skated forward a little bit. He let go of one hand and stepped to the side. “Now, relax and think about how good that cup of coffee’s going to taste.”

“What cup of coffee?”

“The one I’m going to buy you when we get off the ice.”

She had dimples, he noticed when she smiled. “I don’t even know your name.”

He hesitated. It didn’t seem like she’d recognized him. Now he was going to give her his name and that would ruin the fun vibe between them. “Jarrad.”

She glanced up, and there wasn’t the slightest recognition. “Hi, Jarrad. I’m Sierra.”

“Pretty name. You’re doing great, Sierra.”

“It’s easier when you hold me up.”

“All you need is practice.” As they reached the edge of the rink he was almost sorry. “And here we are.” He helped her step off the ice, then went back to collect the gloves and stick.

When he returned, she was unlacing skates that in his opinion should be in the garbage. “Well? Can I buy you a coffee?”

She glanced at him, as though trying to divine his intention, which would be tough since he didn’t know what his intentions were himself. Only that he liked the look of this woman and didn’t want to say goodbye quite yet.

“All right.”

Once she had her street shoes back on and the padding off, he realized he’d been correct. She had a sweet little body.

The coffee shop in the ice sports complex was quiet. He got them both a coffee and brought the steaming cups to the small table in the corner where he figured no hockey fans would spot him right away. Especially since he made sure to sit with his back to the room.

“You’re tanned,” she said. “Did you just get back from Hawaii or something?”

“California.”

“Nice.”

They sipped coffee and he realized he didn’t have much practice anymore in talking to regular women who weren’t either famous themselves or involved with celebrities.

While he racked his brain for something to say, she said, “What team do you coach?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I’m going to coach them. It’s the fire and police team, but I came here today as an observer and what I observed is there’s no teamwork. No sense of a common goal. They’re like a bunch of little kids, all trying to grab the glory.”

A smile lit up her face. “Ah, maybe I can help. I know a lot about organizing little kids.”

3

HE WAS SO CUTE, SIERRA thought, gazing at the earnest expression in the green eyes across from her. He had sun-streaked brown hair and a craggy face that was more appealing because it was so imperfect.

His nose had obviously been broken at least once and there was a toughness to his body that she liked. He had a scar that started at his left cheekbone, a little too close to the eye for her comfort in imagining what injury might have caused it, that jagged its way down an inch or so into his cheek. When he smiled, the scar creased like an overenthusiastic laugh line. She found it fascinating.

She’d never felt so comfortable with a man so quickly. It was as though she already knew him.

“I teach grade two. When the boys aren’t getting along on the playing field, or aren’t working together, you know what I do?”

He seemed absolutely fascinated. He leaned forward and cupped his chin in his hand. “What do you do?”

“You see, boys are very visual, and they’re competitive. It’s simply in their nature. So I tell them to imagine they are building a big fort. If each of them only looks out for himself, then there will be a bunch of little forts, none of them strong enough. But if they work together, they can build something stronger and better.”

“And does it work? “

“Pretty well.”

“Would it work with a bunch of overgrown boys? The kind who fight crime and put out fires?”

“I have no idea. But I’ve sometimes thought that when it comes to competition and games, big boys have a lot in common with little boys.”

The man across from her laughed. “You know a lot about men.”

“No,” she said sadly. “I don’t think I do.”

He gazed at her quizzically for a moment, but instead of calling her on possibly the stupidest remark she’d ever made to an attractive stranger, he said, “I have an idea.”

“What?”

“You help me with my overgrown kids and I’ll teach you to skate well enough to be able to play hockey.”

“I’m not sure I’m cut out for hockey,” but to her own ears it sounded as if she was saying, “persuade me.” And so he did.

“It’s a fun sport, and if you want the respect of your young male pupils, tell them you play hockey. They’ll think you rock.”

She couldn’t help a slightly smug smile from blooming. “My male students already think I rock.”

When he smiled his whole face lit with charm. “That I can believe. I think my first love was my grade-two teacher. You know, those boys will still get dreamy-eyed about you decades from now. So, play hockey to push your boundaries.”

“I’m not sure I want my boundaries pushed.”

“All right, then. You and me, on the ice, right now, for thirty minutes. If, at the end of half an hour you don’t want to continue, what have you lost? Half an hour of your time.”

“Why would you want to teach me how to skate?”

“The truth is, I’ve never coached before. I think if I can get you interested in hockey, then maybe there’s a chance I could actually be a coach.” He drained the last of his coffee. “Besides, I like you. I want to spend more time with you.”

She couldn’t believe it. He announced interest in her as a woman as though it was a perfectly normal, everyday thing, not a big deal. And because he saw it that way, she was able to keep her own perspective.

She was pretty sure after half an hour dragging around the klutziest woman who had ever donned skates he’d be ready to call off his idea to teach her about hockey. But for half an hour, this interesting man was hers.

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Great. Now, first thing we need to do is get you some skates.”

“I have skates,” she reminded him.

“Please. Wayne Gretzky couldn’t skate in those things. They’re trashed.”

And he reached over and picked the dingy white boots up and strode out of the coffee shop with her trailing in his wake.

He received a flattering degree of attention from the rental place compared to how she’d fared. He must be a regular. And before long she was wearing a pair of proper hockey skates that definitely supported her ankles better. This time, when she stepped onto the ice, she felt more confident.

Jarrad ran back to the rink where the cops and firefighters were still practicing, returning with a sports bag. He pulled out his own skates. Mean-looking black things, which he laced up with incredible speed.

When they hit the ice, he took her hand. She couldn’t believe how much she liked this, the holding hands, gliding across the frozen surface. Already she was feeling better.

“The first thing you have to do,” he said, “is stop being so scared. You’ve got padding. So what if you fall? You’ll slide. Get over it. The ice is your personal highway. Make friends with it.”

Make friends with the ice?

She thought she might manage a nodding acquaintance, but at the end of half an hour she was skating. By herself. Without looking at her feet. He didn’t call a halt and neither did she. Instead, he worked with her on a drill. He’d skate alongside her passing the puck, which she was able to retrieve most of the time.

She was having so much fun, she forgot to be scared. And that’s when she fell. And slid.

She glanced up to find Jarrad gazing down at her.

She laughed. “You’re right. It didn’t hurt at all.”

He held a hand down for her and helped her to her feet.

“So? You coming back for more?”

His hands rested on her shoulders and she felt some kind of sizzle run through all the layers of padding right to her skin. Coming back for more? Oh, yes, please.

She had no idea if he’d read her mind or was feeling the same sizzling attraction, but after looking at her for a moment, he said, “Have dinner with me tonight?”

“Dinner?” she said stupidly, as though she’d never heard the word.

“With me. Tonight.”

She thought about refusing. For a nanosecond. There was something about him, some confidence that suggested he might be one of those guys who was simply out of her league.

Then she thought of the way she’d spent the last hour. If she’d learned anything it was that sometimes when you fell it didn’t hurt.

“I’d love to.”

ONCE SHE GOT HOME, Sierra was determined to find something more flattering to wear than her brother’s too-big hockey padding. She still couldn’t believe that cute coach had asked her out. Or that she’d said yes.

She’d never been a spontaneous woman, and yet here she was—going out with a virtual stranger. In fact, she realized in horror, she didn’t even know his last name.

But then she wasn’t a complete fool. He didn’t have hers either. They were meeting at the restaurant he’d named. One of the best restaurants in Vancouver, a west-coast seafood bistro in Yaletown that she only knew about because it had been written up so much. Not that she’d ever been there.

Of course, a restaurant like that demanded a certain amount of primping. If she’d had time she’d have bought a new dress, but she didn’t have time for that, or a makeover. Or a six-week boot camp to get her body into peak shape. No, make that a fifty-six-week boot camp.

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?”

“How pretty your neck is.” He kissed her again. “Long and elegant, like a dancer’s.”

“My neck?”

She didn’t sound like it was the greatest compliment of her life.

“Among other things.” He ran a fingertip along her collarbone. “I probably need to get you out of these clothes to confirm how pretty everything else is.”

She snorted. The most unladylike thing he’d ever seen or heard her do. “It’s not all that exciting.”

“You let me be the judge of that,” he said, and then, because he couldn’t resist, he pulled her in and started kissing her again.

He thought he could kiss this woman all day and all night and never grow tired of it.

While they were mouth-to-mouth, he slipped his hands under the hem of her dress, raising it and reaching under. Her skin was warm and soft and as he touched her she made soft little sounds in her throat, like unspoken words of encouragement. He felt his blood start to heat as his hands trailed up to the edges of surprisingly sexy panties.

He’d planned to go so slowly, take it easy, but he sensed a heat coming off this woman, and a need that he felt in his caveman’s heart. Abandoning caution, finesse, he turned her so her back was to him, dragged down the zipper, exposing her back and the lacy strap of a black bra. And her long, beautiful neck.

He kissed his way down, from bump to bump of her spine. He could feel her excitement, feel her moving against him as he followed the zipper’s path with his lips, breaking contact between his mouth and her skin only long enough to slip the dress off her shoulders and let it drift to the floor.

He turned her around, took her mouth again. She still wore those crazy green-and-black shoes, and nothing else but a lacy black bra and panties. He had her bra unsnapped and sailing into the corner of the room in seconds, and then he pulled back to look at her.

“You are beautiful,” he said, meaning it with every fiber of his being.

“No, I’m not,” she sighed. “I’m so ordinary.”

There was such sadness in the words, but how could she even think that about herself? Her neck was long, her shoulders elegant and her breasts high and firm. Her belly was slender, but slightly rounded as a woman’s should be. Her stomach didn’t sport a six-pack, but then he’d never thought a woman’s belly should be indistinguishable from a guy’s, not that he’d ever said that aloud.

She reached for his shirt and he helped her pull it off, then pulled her close again, enjoying the rub of her skin against his. “Am I too hairy for you?” He felt like an animal with a pelt, but she buried her face against his chest, licked his nipples.

“I love it,” she said.

He pushed her back on the bed, toppling her so she fell laughing onto the mattress. He traced the waistband of her panties then dipped inside for a tantalizing touch of her soft sweetness.

All he did was touch her and she gasped, her back rising off the bed. And it was as if a bomb went off inside him. He needed to touch her, lick her, take her. He wanted to take her every possible way he could think of and maybe they’d invent a few new ones.

He was panting, already wanting to pound himself inside her body when he hadn’t even begun to pleasure her yet. Steady, boy, he warned himself. He tried to remember that he’d planned to take this slowly, but then he hadn’t known that Sierra would be so unbelievably responsive, or that her eyes would half close and she’d look at him the way Cleopatra must have looked at Anthony. Or that her skin would smell like honey and taste like rain-washed waves.

She was, in a word, gorgeous. And real.

He stripped her panties off because he simply had to see her, taste her.

While he was at it he stripped the rest of his clothes off too so they were both naked.

When he joined her on the bed, he could see her eyeing him, her eyes big and trusting and sparkling with excitement.

She reached over, ran her hands over his hairy chest, then down over his belly. Her hand was so small and yet so sensuous when she touched him. Before he’d even realized her intention, she’d closed her hand around him. He felt the slight quiver in her fingers, excitement or nerves, he had no idea, but it was like a hot, vibrating glove and he knew that if she clutched him like that for much longer he’d embarrass himself.

So he flipped himself on top of her, kissed his way down her body until she was squirming, then he pushed her legs apart and put his mouth on her. Right there. Right where she was so hot and honey-sweet.

She cried out when he licked her, and once he got her going, he practically had to hold onto her hips to keep her earthbound.

When he pushed his tongue all the way up inside her, she grabbed his head, clutching his hair with her fingers and pretty much screaming as her orgasm shook her. Her inner walls spilled honey on his tongue and pulsed around him as the aftershocks shook her.

SHE. COULD. NOT. BELIEVE. What. Had. Just. Happened. To. Her.

Each thought word was more like a pant.

Oh, oh. Oh. He was so good. It was all she could think. He was soo good. Naturally, he’d had decades of practice with supermodels, but right now she didn’t care. It was as though he’d been designed with no other purpose than to give her pleasure.

He was kissing his way back up her body and her skin was so supersensitized that she experienced little shocks of pleasure everywhere his tongue touched her.

When he got up close enough to kiss her, she tasted her own pleasure, and wondered how she’d ever got so lucky as to find herself in this amazing man’s bed.

Sierra had never thought of herself as a tiger in bed. Hah. More like a stuffed animal when she’d been with Michael. Now, tonight, she wanted it all. She wanted to try everything she’d ever dreamed of, every passionate, crazy, fantasy she’d ever imagined.

Jarrad had probably done it all a thousand times, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t imagine a man more fun to try things with.

His hands were all over her. Jarrad touched her as though he loved the feel of her. As though she were the most amazing woman in history.

When he’d kissed her mouth for so long she was lightheaded, he moved south. Kissing her chin, her throat and her chest. He spent a long time on her breasts, kissing and sucking them.

She tried to hold on to sanity long enough to remind him of the importance of protection, but he was already reaching for the night table and she relaxed, knowing that he might take chances on the ice, but he wouldn’t take chances with her.

The sound of the tearing condom wrapper reminded her that she hadn’t anticipated sex in a long time. Hadn’t wanted a man inside her as much as she wanted this one in longer than she could remember. Maybe ever.

In a second he was ready, and she opened for him as he pushed slowly inside her.

The long, slow friction was heaven. And hell. She wanted him inside her so badly, even as she realized he was a big man, and holding himself back so as not to hurt her. But she was so hot, so needy, that she couldn’t wait. She pulled him into her even as she thrust up against him.

“Oh, honey, you feel so good,” he groaned. Oh, he had no idea how good she felt. Her body was melting from the inside out, and the more he thrust into her, the more she wanted.

She was mindless, crazed, and he soon caught her mood and joined in, not taking it easy but giving her everything he had.

She cried out, she was exploding, gripping and grabbing at him as they surged and bucked against each other, hard and strong and needy.

With a helpless groan, he followed her, stretching the incredible sensations out with a few long, slow strokes that left him shuddering until he fell limply on top of her.

A drop of sweat splashed onto her breast. “Oh, baby,” he said. He turned onto his back, pulling her with him, she snuggled against him, loving the tickly feeling of his hairy chest against her cheek and the sound of his heart pounding beneath her ear.

When they’d both calmed a little, she said, “I saw your commercial tonight on TV.”

He grimaced. “My condolences. I’m no Robert DeNiro.”

“No. But you are the kind of man who is so famous he can move shaving cream.”

He didn’t seem to get her point. “They called it Ice. Can you imagine anything more lame?”

“Jarrad, you’re a celebrity.”

It was a moment before he answered, and what he said was, “I’m a washed-up hockey player.”

Wow. She’d been so caught up with her own insecurities she hadn’t even thought about what it must be like for him, to have risen so high and now be retired before he was ready.

She rose on one elbow. “You are not a washed-up anything,” she informed him. “Right now you are a hockey coach. Who knows what you’ll end up being?”

“That’s easy for you to say. Your work has meaning. Every morning when you wake up, you know you’re changing lives. You are helping kids learn stuff and grow up to be good citizens. That is so much more important than shooting a puck down the ice.”

She started to laugh. First a low chuckle that she tried to smother, then a snort emerged and finally she could hold it back no longer. She let out a huge howl of laughter.

“You are laughing? At my loss of career?”

“No. I’m laughing because I was so demoralized when I found out who you were that I would have canceled our date if I’d had your number.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He rolled over, pinned her. “I am so glad you didn’t have my phone number. Look what I would have missed.”

She didn’t even want to think about what she’d have missed.

“It’s just that, you’re, like, some celebrity that I’d see on TV and think, ‘Wow, he’s cute,’ but not someone I’d ever meet in real life. I want to know what the real man is like.”

“Okay. Ask me anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yep.”

“Promise to answer honestly?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “If you promise not to share anything I might tell you with anyone else. Especially anyone who might, say, carry a camera and a notebook and snoop on people for a living.”

“Promise.”

Now that she had his word he’d tell her anything, she had no idea what she wanted to ask him. She gazed up into those gorgeous green eyes and wondered if anything ever dented his armor. And there it was. Her question.

“When’s the last time you cried?”

He sucked in a breath. “You don’t want to start with an easy one? Like my astrology sign?”

“Nope.”

Besides, all the easy stuff was on the internet. He was a Taurus, she already knew that. His sign was the bull, which seemed perfect.

He flopped on his back and stared at the ceiling, but kept a hand resting on her thigh so she still felt connected to him, warmed by his touch.

“When my father died,” he finally said.

Her sympathy was immediately aroused. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was so sudden. He was alive and joking last time I saw him, and then boom. He had a massive heart attack and he was gone.” His voice thickened. “I never got to say goodbye. Never got to thank him for teaching me to skate.”

A tear rolled down the side of his face and she felt her own eyes fill.

“Never got to tell him I loved him.”

She kissed him. “He knew,” she said softly. “He knew.”

For a moment they lay there, her head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her. And for her, he wasn’t a shaving-cream-commercial celebrity or a former NHL heavyweight, he was a man who missed his father. And who could open his heart to a woman.

“So,” he said after a while. “Are we going to lie around blubbering or are we going for round two? “

Her body sparked immediately in response. “I pick round two.”

“That’s my girl.” And he rolled over and kissed her. And let his hands roam all over her as though he couldn’t ever get enough.

“Is there anything in particular I can do for you?” he asked in a low, sexy voice.

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

She smiled the smile of a woman who is with a great lover.

“Everything.”

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