Face-Off. Nancy Warren

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