Face-Off (8 page)

S
AM WOKE WITH A SLOW,
satisfied smile. Not even wanting to open her eyes so she could savor the memories of the night before.

She stretched her arms over her head, pointed her toes and stretched her lower half, enjoying the feeling of being in her body. Of everything that body could do, had done, had experienced and enjoyed through that long, delicious night.

She turned and reached for Greg. Wanting to tell him—she didn't even know what—but wanting him to know how special it had been, the day that had stretched into night. They'd been so starved for each other.

A sweet tingle went through her as she thought about him.

Amazingly, she still wasn't satisfied.

Her questing arms hit cold sheets. Puzzled, she opened her eyes. She glanced around and squinted at the clock. It was almost nine. She hadn't slept this long on a Sunday morning in ages. But then she hadn't been this relaxed in ages.

She remembered trying to speak, to tell Greg how much she'd missed him, but he'd looked at her with that smile
in his eyes that told her everything she needed to know, and then he'd sent her to sleep with a kiss.

He was so sweet. And she was so happy to have him back.

The bathroom door was shut so she raised her voice. “Hey, lover boy. I think I'm out of food. How 'bout I take us out for breakfast?”

He didn't answer. She raised her voice louder. “I hope you made coffee.”

With a huge yawn, she rolled herself out of bed, shuffled into her robe and pushed her feet into fuzzy gray slippers.

When she padded out to the kitchen she experienced her first twinge of doubt. The coffeepot was cold. The kitchen, pristine.

And as her senses sharpened she realized that she didn't hear anything or even have that notion of another person being in her place.

And then she saw the note.

A bright yellow Post-it slapped in the middle of her fridge like a pimple on a forehead. It read:

She read the note. Once. Then she read it again. And again, but the obscurity of the message didn't change. Nor could she squeeze any more meaning out of it.

Thanks for last night?
Like she'd done him a favor? Changed the oil on his car or picked up his dry cleaning?

You're the best.
While she naturally agreed with the literal translation of the words, it was the sort of phrase
you'd throw out to a waitress who brought you an extra side of toast, or someone who'd done you a favor, such as changing your oil or picking up your dry cleaning.

Somebody with whom you'd had the best sex ever? In your whole pathetic life?
Thanks for last night. You're the best,
wasn't cutting it.

Even the signature was abbreviated. Deliberately casual. G. Like writing three more letters would have killed him?

And where was the part about calling her, or seeing her again?

Because she was a lawyer and tried to consider all sides, she actually peeled the note off the fridge and flipped it over. As though there might be more on the other side. But it was as cheerfully, blankly yellow as one of those little smiley faces.

By the time the coffee had brewed and she was sipping her first mug of the day, she realized that he'd very deliberately avoided any mention of calling her. Or seeing her again.

That note was telling her she'd had a one-night stand. No promises. No expectations.

No implied future.

She ripped the note a few times. Then she tossed the little pieces. They floated to the trash like jagged yellow confetti for a wedding that would never happen.

For the strangest moment, she felt like crying. Standing there in her designer kitchen, drinking her fair trade coffee in a sleek black mug, she felt like crying.

But Sam wasn't one to give in that easily.

If Greg wanted to pretend that what had happened between them was nothing a Post-it note couldn't fix, then that was fine.

She wasn't a girl who stood in her kitchen crying in
her coffee because a man had left before she was ready for him to leave. Before they'd even had a conversation she'd assumed would happen over breakfast.

It was as though they'd reached a place of complete physical intimacy while emotionally they'd avoided contact as much as possible.

And now he was gone.

Fine.

She was fine.

She was a modern, independent, successful single woman. She'd enjoyed some great sex. What wasn't great about that? So, the guy didn't happen to want a future. Or commitment. Fine!

Instead of standing around whining, she did what she always did when emotion threatened to swamp her.

She pulled on her running gear and headed out.

The day was unexpectedly sunny. As she pounded down her regular route, toward the beach, she saw families headed for church, computer hounds and university students hunched over their screens in Starbucks, forgotten mugs at their sides. She waved to Mike, the homeless guy who pushed the crosswalk button when he saw her coming so she wouldn't have to wait.

This was her world. Her life.

She'd made it what she wanted and nobody was going to mess with that. Nobody.

Her work was absorbing, she liked her firm and her colleagues, her apartment was sleek and modern and low-maintenance, so she could lock up and head out on a moment's notice if she felt like heading to Whistler for a weekend's skiing, or hitting any exotic destination.

The breath was rasping in her lungs and she realized that she was running too fast. She slowed down, tried to find her pace.

She had friends, family, good local restaurants, and if she felt lonely there were people she called.

Sure, Greg had stirred up some old longings, reminded her of the future she'd once thought she'd have.

No wonder she felt off, slightly melancholy. It was impossible to go back. She should have known that. She had to keep her eyes firmly forward. On the future.

With that in mind, after her run, she stretched, showered and then threw her sheets into the wash and changed the bed. She had a cleaning service, but it still felt good to rid the apartment of all traces of where Greg had been.

Then, dressed in jeans, a crisp white shirt and a navy blazer, she went in to work.

There was something soothing about the office on a Sunday afternoon. A couple of other lawyers were around, but mostly the space was silent, without the shrill of phones, the noise and commotion of busy lawyers and support staff.

She could always absorb herself in her work. By writing up a brief and catching up on some correspondence, she passed a few hours.

She had the fleeting idea that maybe she'd call Jarrad and see what his plans were for dinner, but pride stopped her. He and Greg were best friends. What if Greg had talked to him? Besides, he had Sierra, and anyway, she'd always been the kind of person who worked things out for herself.

In the end she called a divorced colleague who she knew hated Sunday nights on his own and they went out for sushi and a movie. By listening to his problems, she was able to put her own aside for an evening.

When she crawled into bed that night after the news, she could have sworn she still smelled Greg in her bedding. Which was ridiculous since she'd thrown all traces
of him into the laundry. Still, she passed a restless night and even though she didn't remember her dreams she had a bad feeling that she knew who had haunted them.

For the next few days she didn't sleep all that well, which really pissed her off. Otherwise, life went on as normal. Greg didn't contact her.

Fine.

Wednesday she put in a long day, having spent a few frustrating hours in court where the judge didn't see things quite her way. Always annoying.

So she wasn't at her best when she stepped off the elevator and walked to her door that Wednesday evening.

She was putting her key in the lock when a man's voice said, from right behind her, “Hello, Sam.”

She didn't stop to think but acted on pure instinct. She pulled out the key and flipped up the Mace can she kept on her key ring to spray in her attacker's face.

She was about to let him have it when it registered that this was Greg standing there, and he simultaneously yelled, “Sam, it's me.”

Adrenaline was still pumping as she lowered her hand slowly. “What are you doing here?”

She was feeling pissy enough with him that she almost wished she'd let him have a good blast of Mace before she'd recognized him.

“I came to see you,” he said warily, still watching her hands. “You going to put that away?”

“Haven't decided yet.”

She narrowed her eyes. “How did you get in here? It's a secure building.”

He pulled out his shield. “Told your doorman it was police business.”

“You planning to arrest me?”

He huffed out a sigh that sounded like pure frustration.
Now she looked at him and she got the feeling he wasn't sleeping very well either. There was a pinched expression around his eyes and circles beneath them. “Maybe. Do you think we could go inside and talk?”

Once again she inserted her key in her lock. Opened the door. She entered and he followed.

She didn't invite him in, merely put down her bag on the floor and confronted him. “What do you want?”

“This,” he said, and, pulling her against him, took possession of her mouth.

No,
she wanted to yell.
No, this isn't what I want,
but she was already lost. The second his lips touched hers she felt the tide of longing sweep over her, beginning in her core and radiating out to her very pores.

“You make me mental,” he murmured in her ear as he yanked off her coat, letting it drop unheeded to the floor and pushing her against the wall.

She had her hands at his zipper, working it down. “I know.”

He reached under the hem of her skirt, felt for her panties, slipped a hand inside and she knew she was already wet for him.

“Oh, you feel so good.”

Their gazes connected and she saw reflected all the emotions she was feeling. Sadness, longing, frustration and a kind of horniness that was almost too strong. Like a raging fever.

As though he couldn't bear to have his emotions hanging out there for her to read, he suddenly turned her and stripped her panties and stockings down in one forceful move. She had to kick off her heels so he could complete the job, and then he was behind her, the heat from his body warming her all the way to her marrow.

He must have come prepared for she heard the rip of a
condom package and then felt him, hard and ready behind her. She parted her thighs, pushing her hips back against him even as she pressed against the wall for support.

He entered her swift and hard and, oh, it was exactly what her mood wanted.

“Yes,” she almost growled, pushing back against him as he began to pump against her. She felt the friction increase, heard his breathing grow ragged, her own panting, then he grabbed her hips, pulling her back against him so their flesh began to slap together.

Oh, it was so good, and he reached places inside her that no one else ever had.

Ever would.

She still wore her blazer from work, her elegant blue silk shirt, and here she was, a woman who billed out at more than three hundred dollars an hour, with her skirt up around her waist being taken roughly from behind by a man who worked the more basic side of the law.

He pulled the pins holding her loose bun in place and her hair cascaded around her shoulders. He kissed it, pushed his lips through it to reach her neck and then, to her shock, she felt him bite her, right at the joint of shoulder and neck, like a stallion mounting a mare.

The swift jolt of pain was soothed by his tongue. His heat surrounded her, the scent of him, of them together. Her senses were swimming, her legs becoming unsteady.

And then he reached around her hips, touched a finger to her hot spot and began to play with her using the same rhythm as his thrusting cock.

She turned her head, greedy for his mouth, and found him there. He took her mouth, she took his, as they swallowed each others' wild cries.

And then they both slid to the floor. Her skirt was a
wrinkled mess, his pants still around his ankles, but they didn't care. They held each other, catching their breath.

He ran his hands idly through her hair and a memory surged to the surface. A time when they'd been studying together and had stopped to make love, and afterward she remembered him stroking her hair in exactly this way while they discussed the play they were studying. They'd even read each other some of the choice lines.

“You said you'd die for me,” she said softly, remembering.

“What?” He lifted his head and looked down at her, utterly confused.

“Remember? When we were studying
Romeo and Juliet.
We were the only two who really understood the play and why those two killed themselves rather than live without the other. You said you'd die for me.”

Sadness filled his eyes and she felt him withdrawing. “That was a long time ago.”

Silence filled her apartment. He eased away and, rising, pulled his pants up and zipped and belted. She straightened her skirt and got to her feet, not wanting to be at a disadvantage looking up at him from the floor.

She knew he was leaving and pride refused to let her ask him to stay.

“Maybe I did,” he said, his hand on the doorknob.

“Maybe you did what?”

He glanced back and his expression was closed. “Die for you.”

B
EFORE SHE COULD ASK
Greg for an explanation, he was gone.

She felt like screaming with frustration. Not only from his cryptic comment about dying for her, but from the frustration of a woman who's had an after-work quickie and wants much, much more.

Sometimes, she was really glad she had a big brother, especially now he was in town. She no longer cared that he was Greg's best friend. She needed Jarrad's counsel.

She called him and Jarrad told her to swing by his house. In minutes she'd showered, changed into jeans and a cherry-red sweater, slipped on boots and her leather jacket and headed out. As always, the drive to Jarrad's soothed her. From Kitsilano, she skirted English Bay, driving down Point Grey Road, then taking the Burrard Street Bridge, edging around downtown Vancouver and over the Lions Gate Bridge and then taking the scenic, if slower, Marine Drive. The highway would be quicker but she felt the need to gather her thoughts. She needed a strong male shoulder to lean on, but she also needed to figure out how much to tell a nosy family member.

There was something about the timeless beat of the ocean that made any problem seem smaller.

When she pounded on Jarrad's door she smelled something amazing. He opened the door and she was struck by how happy he looked, how relaxed. “Hey, sis,” he said, pulling her in for a bear hug.

“Bro.” She hugged him back.

“Sierra's here, but we can go for a walk if you want some privacy.”

“I know she's here. Nothing you can cook smells that good,” she said, walking into the room and giving her favorite schoolteacher a hug. “What's for dinner?”

Sierra also seemed to have bloomed in the weeks she'd known Jarrad. The woman had an inner confidence that had been lacking. Looking at the pair, she thought they were one of those rare couples who truly fitted together.

Imagine.

“Chicken cacciatore. Enough for three.”

She grinned. “I'd love you even if you hadn't straightened out my brother. I'll set the table.”

“Wine?” Jarrad brandished a bottle of red.

“Sure.”

The three of them sat around the fireplace which danced with the flames of a real wood fire. Jarrad handed out the wine and she sipped gratefully.

She glanced around at the mishmash of handmade furniture and the blue-and-white upholstery. Sure, it was charming, but with this property right on the ocean, he could have a real showplace. “I hope you're going to knock this shack down and build a real house now Sierra's in the picture,” she said.

She caught the shared glance between her dinner hosts and knew instinctively that was never going to happen. Had he actually found a woman who preferred sea shanty
to luxury? She shook her head. “You really are perfect for him, aren't you?”

“Yep,” her brother said, putting an arm around his woman.

“Jarrad said you sounded upset,” Sierra said, giving her a concerned look. “If you want to talk, I can go in the other room.”

She waved a hand. “No. You're a woman. Maybe you can help.”

She took a sip of wine. Jarrad always had great wine. She took another approving sip. “What's up?”

“I've sort of been seeing Greg.”

Jarrad choked on his wine. “You have?”

Sierra, she noted, didn't look at all surprised. She was one of those quiet, smart women who didn't miss much.

“Well, that's the problem, actually. I'm not seeing him, only sleeping with him.”

“Slut!” Jarrad said in mock disgust.

She leaned over and punched his knee.

“Ow,” he said, laughing. “Okay, okay. You're sleeping with the dude. Get it. You're both single, I don't see the problem.”

Sierra shook her head. “Men never do.”

“I know.” She turned to the woman she strongly suspected would soon be her sister-in-law. “I'm not sure if you know, but we used to go out in high school.”

The other woman nodded. “I heard.”

“He wanted to marry me when I left to go back east to law school. I thought he was trying to control me and we had this huge fight and broke up. You know, the kind of fight that you figure you'll settle because in your whole life you've always worked it out and moved on?”

Sierra nodded.

“But this one we somehow never did. And the more time that passed, the more impossible it was for us to patch things up.”

A log popped in the fireplace and she thought how cozy it was here. They didn't even have music playing so she heard the ocean beating against the shore. She shook her head. “A decade can go by real fast. And then we met again at the rink and went for a burger and, boom, we ended up in bed so fast I was still tasting French fries.”

She frowned as the memory played out all the way. “And then he left. Without saying anything about seeing me again.”

“Did it happen only the one time?”

“No. It's been a couple of times. It's like he can't stay away from me, but he doesn't want a real relationship with me either.”

“What set off the panic phone call?” Jarrad wanted to know.

“I was feeling weird, you know? And I reminded him that when we read
Romeo and Juliet
in high school he'd said he would die for me.”

“Sounds like a sixteen-year-old,” Jarrad said.

“Be quiet, Jarrad,” Sierra said in her schoolteacher voice. “How did Greg respond?”

“He said, maybe he already did die for me. What kind of a stupid thing is that to say to a person? I don't even know what it means.”

“Are you sure?” The gentle voice prodded.

Instead of answering, Sam drank some more wine. “Maybe. Maybe it means I killed his love for me.”

“Oh, I don't think so. I don't think so at all.”

“You mean…?” She didn't even want to finish the sentence, didn't want to admit to anyone in the room, least of
all herself, how much she wanted it to be true that Greg still loved her.

“I think he still loves you. You remember how
Romeo and Juliet
ends?”

“In a bloodbath,” Jarrad said with a frown. “Or was that
Hamlet?
”

Sierra ignored him. “Juliet's taken this potion to make it seem as though she's dead so she can supposedly be buried in the family vault, and then she'll wake up and sneak out and live happily ever after with Romeo. But he never gets the message so when he hears she has died, he truly believes she's gone. Romeo can't live without her, and so he kills himself at her side.”

“Right. I remember the play.”

“But then Juliet wakes up and finds Romeo dead. And in despair she kills herself with his sword so they can be together always.”

“Right. Tragic teenaged love.”

Sierra gazed into the fire and the light pinkened her cheeks. “The play's also about miscommunication. Sometimes speaking the truth is the most important thing you can do.”

“But if his love is dead…”

“Not his love. His pride. His ego. Greg threw himself on his sword, metaphorically, when he proposed to you and you turned him down. Right now, I'd say you're at the part of the play where you're waking up and discovering he's made this huge sacrifice for you. Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Are you suggesting I should—what was your expression—throw myself on my sword?”

“It's up to you what you do. But the rest of your life is a long time to go without the man you love.”

She didn't even protest that she still loved the guy. Not
when Sierra was so smart. What was the point? “So I have to propose?”

“Sacrifice your ego and pride on the altar of love and see what happens.”

Sam felt a little sick. “But what if he says no?”

“You won't be any worse off than you are now. And at least you'll know.”

At least she'd know.

“I don't know. I have to think about this. Maybe it would be better if I told him not to come around anymore. Go back to the way things were.”

No one answered her. After a beat of silence, Jarrad said, “I'm starved. Let's eat.” And the emotional part of the evening ended with them all heading to the table, passing bread and sharing Sierra's amazing food.

“Mmm, this is fantastic,” Sam said as she dug into the meal Sierra had prepared. She might be broken-hearted, but she could still enjoy a hearty meal. She ripped apart a slice of bread and before she stuck a piece in her mouth, said to her brother, “You'd better not let this woman get away.”

“I don't intend to,” Jarrad said, giving Sierra a secret, intimate smile that made Sam's heart ache. Not that she wanted to deny them their obvious bliss with each other, but because she wanted some of that herself.

She twirled pasta around her fork then, before she filled her mouth, said, “Have you ever done something that if you could undo it, would change your whole life for the better?”

“I wish I'd never gone out on the ice on that November away game,” Jarrad said immediately. She knew how hard that had been for him, suffering a career-ending hit before he was ready to retire.

“Oh, boy,” she said, reaching out to pat his hand.

“But,” he continued, “if I hadn't lost my career I wouldn't have come home right when I did and I wouldn't have met Sierra.” He sent his girlfriend another of those intimate glances that made Sam crazy jealous wanting that for herself. “So, no. I'm glad things happened as they did.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sierra said, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“What about you, Sierra?”

“I would have wished that I never got involved with Michael, a man who didn't deserve me. But then, if I hadn't, I wouldn't have got my heart broken and the girls wouldn't have talked me into playing hockey, and I wouldn't have met Jarrad.”

“Yeah, great. This is all really nice, but my wish is that I hadn't turned Greg down when he asked me to marry him. How has that turned out to be a good thing?”

There was a moment of silent. Jarrad looked at her with pity. “Nope. Sorry. Can't help you. You screwed up royally with that one.”

“Oh, don't listen to him,” Sierra said, half laughing. “You obviously weren't ready to make that kind of commitment when he first asked you.” She reached over and gave Sam's wrist a reassuring squeeze. “Now, I think maybe you are.”

“But I have to humiliate myself somehow.”

“Seems like it.”

She shoved the pasta in her mouth. Talked around it. “That sucks.”