Face-Off

by Nancy Warren

  Then she grabbed her shoes, her bag and ran lightly down the stairway.

  He followed at a more leisurely pace. “Wait. I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh.” She stood rooted to the spot beside the front door where in some foolish attempt to stamp his own personality on the condo, he’d installed a pop machine. It was obvious she’d forgotten she didn’t have her own wheels.

  “I could get a cab.”

  “Please let me drive you home. I promise not to beg you to see me again or embarrass you in any way.”

  She squinted her eyes at him as though suspecting a trap. “Promise?”

  “Yep. We’ll talk about the weather. Have you noticed that it rains all the time here?”

  A hint of a smile appeared. “Okay. Thanks.”

  So, she was going to make this difficult was she? Deny them both a fully satisfying relationship because of some bogus PR crap about whom she could date.

  Putting aside the fact that he thought he was good dating material, he suspected he was going to have to get rid of whatever pretty boy they’d set up for her.

  He flexed his fingers as though about to don his skating gloves. There was nothing Taylor enjoyed more than a challenge.

  BECKY THREW OFF LAST night’s clothes and jumped into the shower in a mix of so many moods she wanted to smack her head against the shower tile to try to knock some sense into herself. Her body still hummed with repletion, and little phrases uttered, images caught, flashed through her mind making her hot all over again.

  Then there was the real life she was trying to live. The one where she had a public persona, responsibilities, where her romantic life was taken care of by a PR department that included her parents, but which certainly left her a lot freer to concentrate on her skating career.

  Or life. Maybe that was the problem. Skating had become her entire life.

  When she emerged from the shower the land-line phone was ringing. She ran for it. Checked call display eagerly. When she saw it was her mother, an absurd sense of disappointment hit her. Gagh. What was wrong with her? Did she seriously think Taylor was going to call her within half an hour of dropping her off? After she’d pretty much blown him off, making it clear she wasn’t available.

  This, a voice in her head chided, is why it was better not to get involved with men. Unfortunately, the voice sounded a lot like her mother’s.

  “Hi, Mom,” she said, picking up the phone.

  “Hi, baby. I called earlier, where were you?”

  She hated lying. To anyone. But especially to her mom. “I was in the shower,” she said, which was true. Not when her mom had called, but she hadn’t exactly told a whopper.

  “Oh, you must have got an early run in. Good for you. You are so dedicated.”

  Well, not answering wasn’t lying either, was it?

  “So, how are you and Dad?”

  “We’re fine. More than fine. Really excited in fact.”

  “You guys finally going to take that cruise?” she asked hopefully. Her folks had been talking about a cruise for years but kept putting it off, usually because of her.

  Her mother laughed. “No. Not this year. Not with so much happening. The good news is for you.”

  For some odd reason her stomach tightened. “What is it?”

  “How would you like to go to the Grammys?”

  “The Grammys? You mean the music awards?”

  “Of course, those Grammys.”

  “Do they want me to be a presenter or something?” It sounded like an odd request, but she did get some strange ones. The idea flitted through her head that it would be fun to present a music award, but the vision was wiped out by her mom’s next words.

  “Not as a presenter, honey. As the guest of one of the nominees.”

  “Which nominee?”

  “Cory Slater! They’re calling him the next Michael Bublé.”

  “I know who he is.” A slight, blond boy from Vancouver Island who was probably her age or a couple of years younger, he was the latest young male singing sensation. After putting out a debut album that had taken the music world by storm and excited way too many ’tween girls, Cory Slater was obviously going places.

  “He’s going to be famous, soon everyone will know who he is.”

  “Why would I go as his guest? Is he a figure skating fan?”

  “No. It’s for the publicity. For both of you. Being seen with him will be good for your image. He’s clean-cut, sings classic songs, none of that rude rap stuff. Hopefully some of your fans will start listening to his music. We might even try to use one of his songs in one of your routines, but we can talk about that later.”

  “And what do I get out of it?” Apart from yet another guy supposedly dating her who wasn’t interested in her any more than she was interested in him.

  “He’s going to be huge. It will bring music fans to you. And it shows that you’re a multifaceted young woman who knows about more than simply skating.”

  “I don’t know, Mom.”

  “You’ve got a couple of months. We want you two to get to know each other a bit first. Be seen at a few public venues. Let the word out to a few key media and bloggers. They call that viral marketing,” her mom said. Becky doubted her mother would know viral marketing from Michael Bublé, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “We thought this Friday would be perfect. You can go out for dinner at one of those places where celebrities are always being sighted, and then maybe out dancing.”

  “No. Not dancing.” The thought of doing with Cory Slater what she’d done last night with Taylor McBride was unthinkable.

  “What is it, honey? You sound tired. Are you eating properly? Taking all your vitamins?”

  “Of course I am.”

  “Maybe I should fly out there this weekend. It’s the Morrisons’ twenty-fifth anniversary party, but I could skip that. We could spend some time together. Go to the spa.”

  “No. I’m fine,’ she snapped a little too quickly. “You go to your party. Honestly, everything’s fine.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. I’ll send you the details about Cory Slater. He says he’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetie.” And her mother was gone.

  And Becky had a blind date set up by her parents.

  8

  “HOW FAR APART DO YOU want us to be for this section?” Taylor asked. They’d been practicing a couple of hours on a small piece of the dance routine. They hadn’t started lifts yet. He wasn’t nearly ready for that. But he was starting to feel pretty comfortable with the dance steps. Irina might come off as scary but she was a good coach once he got used to the accent and the way she barked orders. He began to realize it was her way of speaking, not that she hated him as he’d first assumed.

  “That’s my job,” Becky informed him tartly. “Basically, I do most of the work. You stick to your moves and don’t screw up and we’ll be fine.”

  He threw up his hands. “Okay, boss.” She was right, of course. She was doing the bulk of the ice dancing while he faked a couple of Fred Astaire moves and then did a few lifts. The lifts terrified him. He’d skated a few times with trophies over his head, and some of them were heavy, but he’d never tried to carry an actual living person. What if he dropped her?

  He was having nightmares at the thought.

  That’s when he wasn’t dreaming about her in entirely different ways.

  Not that any of those dreams were coming true either. Since their one night of fun he’d kept things strictly business. If there was a pulse that beat between them when their bodies touched, she couldn’t blame that on him since at least half the heat was coming from her.

  If their eyes sometimes connected for too long, or their hands stayed clasped a few seconds more than strictly necessary, he didn’t figure that was all him either.

  He didn’t think one time was going to be enough for either of them. But he could wait until s
he knew that as well as he did.

  He might not wait patiently, but he’d wait.

  And then they started the lifts.

  Irina showed him what he had to do. He would lift Becky and she’d arrange herself like Ginger Rogers spinning around a ballroom dance floor with Fred. All he had to do was hold her up and skate in a circle.

  They practiced first in a gym. It wasn’t too bad and she didn’t weigh much.

  Then they moved to the ice.

  He prepared to lift her, she skated to him and he grabbed her, but didn’t lift. “I can’t do it. What if I drop her?”

  “Do not drop her,” Irina said, at her fiercest.

  “You won’t drop me.” Becky looked at him, giving him an understanding smile. “If I start to slip, I’ll cling on like a monkey. Hey, I trust you.”

  Somehow, her confidence rubbed off on him. He took a breath. Figured even if something happened he could angle his body to take the fall. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  She skated up to him, he caught her in his arms, lifted her. She was so agile, so strong. He felt her move, changing position, felt their bodies align, let his skates lead him in circles, trusted her, trusted him, trusted them together.

  The last part of the move was her sliding slowly down his body to land on the ice, where she’d spin away. But they hadn’t got to that part yet. All he had to do was let her slide down his body.

  Relief spilled through him as they made it through the lift, and then she was sliding down, into his arms. When she reached the ice, her arms wrapped around his neck and her body snug against his, she gave him her generous smile. “You didn’t drop me.”

  “I didn’t drop you.”

  And because the relief was so enormous, and she was so sweet and the imprint of her body was a reminder of everything they’d done together, everything he wanted to do again, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  A sharp intake of breath, part warning, part sigh, and then she melted against him, kissing him back with all the pent-up longing he’d hoped she suffered.

  “Tsch!” Irina burst out.

  He ignored the coach. “Come out with me tonight,” he murmured against Becky’s lips. “I can’t.”

  “Sure you can. I’ll take you somewhere where no one will know you. A dark, secret place where the paparazzi never go.”

  “Your place?”

  “No. My favorite pool hall.”

  Her laughter bubbled. “You’re asking me to play pool with you?”

  “I am.” He figured she had enough idiots asking her for fancy dates. Anyone could see she was a physical kind of woman who didn’t want to sit around all night eating a bunch of crap that wasn’t good for her athlete’s body.

  “I’ve never played pool.” She sounded interested.

  “Excellent. I’ll teach you. I’m a very good teacher.”

  He moved in closer. “A very good teacher.”

  “We are talking about pool, right?”

  He grinned at her wickedly. “What else would I be talking about?”

  She shouldn’t go, Becky knew that on every level. A date, even as non-date as playing pool sounded, could give the man the wrong idea, plus she had her set-up date the following night with Cory. She needed to look her best.

  But rebelliousness kicked in. Why shouldn’t she have some fun just for herself? Who was she hurting? Besides, she reasoned, the more time she spent getting comfortable with Taylor, the better their routine would turn out to be.

  “Okay,” she said. “You’re on.”

  SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHAT she’d expected. A pool hall, she supposed, with slit-eyed characters betting large sums of money on sinking some ball into some pocket.

  In fact, Taylor drove her to a neighborhood pub in Kitsilano named Jason’s. Jason’s had been around for forty years and if there’d been an update in decor during that time the redecorating was too subtle to notice.

  Downstairs were big TV screens showing several sports at once, scarred wooden tables that were about half-full. The clientele was a combination of university students and locals, some of whom looked as if they’d been coming here since the place first opened.

  Taylor led her up a flight of wooden stairs and there was a single pool table sitting under lights.

  One more TV screen played up here, and a quartet of students battled it out noisily over a dartboard.

  Becky put down her bag and approached the table. Her life had been so narrowly focused on one sport that she’d never even held a pool cue, never mind tried to hit a ball. She had no idea what she was doing.

  Taylor, however, had clearly misspent a lot of his youth around pool tables. He pushed some coins into the slot, set up the balls in a triangle and removed a cue from the wall.

  He explained that she had to shoot the white ball into the triangle and break it up. Sounded easy enough.

  He bent over and she liked the easy way he moved, shivered a little when her mind flipped back to their night together when he’d taken her with the same easy athleticism he now turned to a pool table.

  Once the balls were spilled all over the green felt, he came up behind her. Put the pool cue in her hand, showing her how to hold it. “Now, lean forward, put the heel of your hand down, and your fingers propped like so.” He showed her how to make a V of her thumb and fingers and prop the cue in them. “Like sighting down a rifle.

  “Now, prop your chin right over the cue,” he instructed in her ear.

  She shifted. How did he make this all sound so sexy? Maybe it was the way he felt he had to stand right inside her personal space to teach her.

  “And ease your legs apart a little bit.”

  A tiny moan escaped her lips. He’d said those words, those very words that night, and suddenly she felt she was back there, parting for him, giving herself to him with a glorious abandon she’d never allowed herself before.

  She eased her jeans-clad legs apart,

  “That’s good, baby,” he whispered, and she knew he’d deliberately replayed the tape from that night. Once more he’d repeated his exact words.

  “Stop it,” she said, but so breathlessly it didn’t come out as any kind of order.

  “Sorry,” and he swiftly kissed her lips.

  Neither of them noticed that one of the dart players was suddenly taking more interest in them than in the dart game. Or that he’d pulled out a small camera.

  Matt Frenshaw was a third-year journalism major who worked on the college’s student paper and also worked as a freelance stringer for the Vancouver Province. He’d recognized the two right away, not thinking there was much of a story there until he saw that kiss. So, Canada’s Skating Sweetheart was recruiting from the farm team, was she? He could see the headline now. He crept downstairs to make a quiet phone call to the city desk.

  As the lesson progressed, Becky found herself enjoying the challenge of lining up her eye and the cue and drawing an imaginary line between the pocket and the ball. It was sort of like geometry, the only math she’d ever been any good at. After an hour or so she was sinking a few of the easy shots and suddenly, to her horror, another couple came up and challenged them to a game. They didn’t seem to care that it was her first time out and Taylor was soon chatting with the guy as though they were the oldest friends in the city not two complete strangers.

  “Okay, honey,” he said, after the four had introduced themselves, “Come over here and have a strategy session.”

  Strategy session? All she was going to try to do was not make a fool of herself or get in the way.

  “Now, this is real important, when you go to shoot, let that scoop on your top flap open a little bit. Throws the guys way off their game.”

  “You’d better not look, then.”

  “It’s different for me. Because we’re on the same team. That gives me a home-team advantage.”

  She shook her head. “You really are that guy, aren’t you?”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy who looks down women’s tops.”


  “Honey, every straight man is that guy.” And he patted her backside.

  Fortunately, Taylor was so good at pool that her lack of experience didn’t matter too much. And she even managed to sink two balls during the three games, which thrilled her.

  After the games, they all shook hands and she and Taylor left. They got into his car and he started the engine. He sent her a look that melted her bones. “Where to?”

  Okay, so he’d been seducing her all night, they both knew that. Those little touches, the compliments on her natural aptitude as a pool player, the way he always seemed to brush her body when he moved past her. The look in his eyes when they rested on her.

  Every part of her felt warm. Kind of bubbly. He was giving her that look again, that sexy, half-sleepy sort of expression that reminded her of rumpled sheets and soft sighs.

  In response, she leaned over, took his mouth with hers. Kissed him thoroughly. “Your place.”

  “You are my kind of woman.”

  9

  HOW COULD HER “DATE” with Cory have been anything but bland after a night of passion with Taylor?

  Cory was nice enough. He picked her up in a limo and took her to a fabulous restaurant where she drank a rare glass of wine and, even though she tried to eat sensibly, wondered how many extra pounds of her Taylor would have to heft in practice.

  A reporter from eChat Canada had conducted a brief on-location interview with them outside the restaurant, and she knew it would air as part of an in-studio interview the singer had already taped. The piece was scheduled to air the next day. The whole thing just made her feel tired. She didn’t want to date Cory.

  She wanted to date Taylor.

  Cory seemed as if he’d either done some research on her or had it done, as he asked her questions based on her biography and skating career, which was sweet if a bit tedious.

  She, in turn, asked him about his music career and so they got through the evening without a single awkward pause or a spark of romantic interest on her part. Or his, she suspected.