One Snowbound New Year's Night, page 4
He no longer did.
* * *
Becca had walked away too scorned and bereft to tell Van what she hadn’t had the courage to say when he had come to see her in Sydney. If he hadn’t agreed so quickly and bluntly that it was time they divorced, she might have opened up and explained about her inability to make babies, but what was the point now? The last thing she wanted was for him to turn around and say, You’re right. It doesn’t matter.
Because it did matter. Very much. And there were many reasons their marriage had been doomed. Dredging up the most painful one wouldn’t make any of the rest easier to bear.
She heard him go outside, and the garage door sounded a short time later. She peered out a guest room window to see he was only brushing the snow from his caked vehicle and pulling it in.
She was still poking through the drawers in that room when he said from the door, “What are you doing in here?”
Flattening a hand on her chest, she said ruefully, “I thought you were still outside.”
The house was extremely well-built, that was the problem. Its walls were thick, its floors never creaking. Sound traveled from the great room to the loft and down the stairs to the game room, but the bedrooms were well-insulated and Van moved with athletic grace. Becca tended to get caught up in whatever she was doing and it all made for constant jump scares.
Van hovered in the door, glancing at the nightstand where a stack of fashion magazines had been shoved into its drawer. Melting snowflakes glistened on his hair and a trickle of water made a trail down his temple and the side of his cheek.
He swiped at it, sharp gaze still flickering around as though searching for clues.
“I was looking for something to do later.” She elbowed toward the jigsaw puzzles in the closet and drew a romance novel off the bookshelf. It was one she’d read, but she remembered liking it. She would read it again.
“Hmph. I’m going to shower.” He carried on to the master bedroom.
Don’t think of it, she scolded herself. But how could she not? Donovan Scott was a name-brand athlete for more than his talent and achievements. He was six foot one of finely toned abs, pecs, biceps and glutes. His jawline was chiseled granite, his eyes a smoldering fire of muted gold. Showering with him had always been a lot of working up lather and scrubbing dirty bits until they were both too weak to move.
Intensive heat flared up from her chest, making her whole face burn. Becca escaped memories that were quickly becoming fantasies by going all the way down both flights of stairs to the basement rec room.
It was always a few degrees cooler here. The back of the house was built into the slope of the mountain. There was a walk-out patio with a path to the beach that was covered by the terrace above. The terrace extended far enough out that the patio mostly stayed clear, but the accumulation of snow on the lawn was high enough to block the view of the lake, not that it was light enough to see it anyway. Dark was closing in.
Becca turned on the gas fireplace and started searching through drawers.
Van arrived at the bottom of the stairs a few minutes later. He wore fresh jeans and a waffle-weave pullover that clung to his muscled shoulders, accentuating his physical power.
Her mouth went dry and she dragged her gaze back to the drawer of old remotes and computer cables she was pawing through, coming across a mini Polaroid photo that jolted her.
“Do you feel like a margarita?” he asked.
“Do I look like one?” She closed the drawer and quirked her mouth at her lame joke. She came across to set the photo on the polished slab of reclaimed wood that formed the top of the bar. “How’s that for a blast from the past?”
She scooted around him into the small, well-stocked space behind the bar. As she looked for ingredients, she surreptitiously watched his reaction to the photo of her in a black turtleneck tucked under his arm. She was beaming at the camera while he was caught in profile, gazing on her with a wolfish expression.
Courtney had taken it and quietly singsonged, “He liiikes you,” as she handed off the photo.
Lust. That’s all it had been, but boy had it felt nice to be wanted that much. Becca was experiencing a hint of that old breathlessness, probably because that same lust was still alive, if their kiss and her involuntary fantasies were anything to go by.
“You haven’t changed,” Van said.
“No?” Becca hid how deeply that stung by turning to see what was in the fridge. When she straightened and glanced at him, Van was hitching onto one of the stools, dragging his gaze up from her backside.
“Déjà vu,” she mumbled under her breath.
“I can’t help it if you have a great ass, Bec. That is your cross to bear.”
She snorted, trying to be annoyed because men, but she’d privately ogled him several times since waking to find him standing in the doorway of their old bedroom. Maybe lust was all they’d had, but they’d had buckets of it.
It was still a mystery to Becca that she’d met Van at all. Or that he’d pursued her when she’d so clearly been not of his world.
* * *
“You have to come,” Courtney insisted. She was dating someone on the ski patrol who invited them to a party hosted by one of his old hockey teammates.
“It’s my one night off,” Becca groaned.
“Exactly why you should come with us. There’s a hot tub,” Courtney coaxed.
Becca did like hot tubs. As much as she liked Canada and skiing and spiders you could cover with a cup rather than a mixing bowl, it was bloody cold here sometimes. Sitting in a bubbling, steaming tub while snow fell made her feel very posh and decadent.
“I’ll come for a little while,” she relented, collecting her togs.
Becca had been in Whistler for four years, but still didn’t have a strong grasp on the national sport or the big names on any of the teams. Nearly every Canadian she knew took to the ice in a beer league so hockey player didn’t compute in her head as someone who played professionally in the NHL.
As they approached the “ski-in, ski-out” mansion, Becca realized this was less a party and more a who-do-you-know? flex. Any celeb who was in town had been invited. The sparkling lounge was full of people dressed way nicer than her plain turtleneck and jeans.
She quickly hid her cheap tote under the coat she’d bought at the ski swap and wished she’d made more of an effort with her makeup. Her hair was nothing but static and flyaway once she’d removed her alpaca wool hat. She self-consciously smoothed her dark brown waves into the indent of her neck as they worked their way into the party.
“Where’s your bathing suit?” Courtney asked as she noted her empty hands.
Becca was not putting on her faded togs here.
“I’ll meet you out there,” she said weakly. “I want to get a drink first.” Maybe she knew the bartender. It was a small world and an even smaller town.
She didn’t know the bartender, but ordered a gin and tonic. While she waited, a silky-voiced Grammy winner came to stand beside her and said a pleasant, “Hello.”
Becca was so intimidated, she flashed a smile and hurried away. She wound up beside a man telling animated stories that made her laugh until he glanced at her, giving her a top-to-toe look while asking, “Who is your agent again?”
He was a Hollywood director and, after she stammered out that she was not an actor looking for a part, she slipped away from that circle, too.
How do I not belong here? Let me count the ways.
She glanced outside, but feared Courtney would pressure her to join the half-naked bodies carousing in the hot tub if she went out to say she was leaving.
Still clutching her drink, she wandered the palatial house, pretending she was looking for someone while skimming her gaze away from any men who tried to make eye contact. It wasn’t that she struggled to meet people. Men always wanted to talk to her, but they never really wanted to talk.
A number of framed photos and accolades on the walls of a staircase had her edging down them as she studied them. When she arrived at the bottom, easygoing laughter drew her to peek through a door into a den where a big-screen television was predictably showing a hockey game. A handful of men, all tall and fit, were chucking darts at a board, trash-talking each other as they did.
No women, Becca noted. She started to turn away before they noticed her, but her feet were rooted to the floor.
Goodness. Who was that? He wasn’t any taller than the rest. They were all six-foot-something, all ripped and in prime health, full of swagger and athletic power. They were all dressed in casually upscale clothes.
One man in chinos and a snug green pullover with the sleeves pushed up shouldn’t have stood out so starkly, but he did. He had a star power that made the rest part of a colorless herd. He had an economical way of moving that didn’t allow her gaze to leave him and the way he glanced over and pinned her with a bright golden stare curled sensual claws into her.
“Do you want to play?” he asked, practically drawing her into the room via tractor beam.
The other men said things she didn’t hear. She shrugged in the most deplorably unsophisticated way while he walked toward her with a handful of darts and offered them.
Her throat went so dry she could only croak, “Sure.”
Becca’s usual comfort zone was to stand on the sidelines listening to other people share snippets of their lives. If men wanted to flirt with her, they could do so from the other side of a bar and buy drinks for the privilege. Being in the spotlight of this man’s attention was painful, but she felt drawn along as though caught in a rip current.
“I’m Donovan Scott. Call me Van. These are some of my friends.” He introduced the other men. “And you’re...?”
“Rebecca. Becca, not Becky.”
“Do you know how to play darts, Becca not Becky?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, but maybe the fact that she was so overwhelmed by him made her come across as unsure because the four of them started telling her the rules and coaching her on where to stand and how to aim and throw.
It was a little too reminiscent of her tween years when the boys in after-school club had been mercilessly patronizing, snapping her bra and turning everything into a sexual innuendo. She forgot to be nervous and fell back on the cheeky retaliations she had used to survive that.
She took her stance and deliberately held the dart with its flight forward.
“No, that’s backward—” Van started to say.
She threw it so it flipped in the air and stuck into the left of the bull’s-eye.
Into the dumbfounded silence, she asked, “Do you know what mansplaining is, gentlemen?” She threw the other two conventionally and hit dead center with two hard, dull thuds.
“Do now,” Van had said, scratching the tip of his nose. Then he quickly said, “We’re playing teams. You’re on mine.” He caught her elbow and pulled her next to him.
Her heart swerved to catch up and she laughed over the other men’s protests.
The evening became fun. The men accused Van of sneaking in a ringer because they won every game. Becca was in heaven, brushing hands with Van as they transferred darts to each other, standing close and murmuring jokes about strategy and technique. He made her feel incredible. Lighthearted and extraordinary.
Don’t let it go to your head, she warned herself.
She dated, but cautiously. A seasonal town like Whistler had people her age coming and going all the time. The culture was very breezy about hooking up and moving on. She’d been stung a couple of times right after she’d arrived. Young men she had thought genuinely liked her had dropped her cold after a few weeks. She wasn’t anxious to relive how naive and insignificant it made her feel.
Van, she learned, was an alpine racer who would represent Canada at the next winter games. His mother was a renowned gold medalist and his father’s family had started buying up land in this area before a ski hill had even been proposed. His father now developed properties across Canada, making their family one of the richest in the country.
Between that, and the yoga studio and boutique owned by his sister and Van’s constant presence on the slopes, he knew everyone.
Van Scott could have anyone.
Becca was confident he had approached her because she was literally the only woman in the room. Everything about him was so far beyond her reach it was laughable, but she still basked in the glow of his attention. She couldn’t help it. She’d never had a man with this much charisma act as if she fascinated him.
When he said, “I have six hours of training first thing tomorrow so I need to get home and get to bed. Do you need a lift home?” she knew exactly what he was asking.
He probably picked up women all the time. She would only be a fresh notch on his bedpost, but the way his gaze sparked with embers that arced to land in the pit of her belly mesmerized her. She was having fun here, but only because she was with him. Once he left, she would be back to feeling out of place and awkward.
She wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him. Not yet.
“I should tell my friend I’m leaving,” she said with a rasp of anticipation in her throat.
“Sure. Let’s go find her.”
Courtney had been out of the tub and catching up with a friend Becca didn’t know. She was quick to flash her camera at them. As she handed over the snapshot, she whispered that she wanted a full report in the morning.
Becca was blushing as they walked outside, feeling as though everyone knew she was going home with him when, in reality, she doubted anyone but Courtney had noticed or cared.
Van’s SUV was already running, snow melting off the windows.
“Remote start,” he said, showing her the fob in his hand. “Are you driving?”
“What? Oh.” She was so nervous she’d absently started around to what was the passenger side back home. Also, she wasn’t used to a man opening a door for her. It felt pretentious to go along with it.
She came to where he stood and climbed in past him, setting her homely bag on her boots, feeling too gauche for words.
He stayed in the open door where the glow of the interior light lit only half his face. “I can take you home. I absolutely will if that’s what you prefer, but...” He watched her closely. “Would you rather spend the night at mine?”
“This is my bathing suit,” she was compelled to explain, pointing at her bag. “I wasn’t planning to go home with anyone.”
“I know.” He choked a laugh. “I wasn’t either. I never do this.”
She doubted that, but confessed, “Neither do I.”
“I mean I have,” he joked. “This isn’t my first time. Don’t worry.”
“Just me then.”
His face fell with shock. “Are you serious?”
“No.” She chuckled at the way he clamped his lips flat and tilted his face up to the flakes drifting from the sky, as though he couldn’t believe she’d gotten him again. “I mean it would be my second time so maybe you should worry a lit—”
His cool hand cupped her cheek and his head ducked in. His mouth covered her grin, stilling her lips before drawing her into a slow, hot kiss that was him. She instantly understood this was the essence of the man. He knew how to hold back and wait for the right moment. When he finally took action, he went all in.
That was the last sensible thought she had because he took her with him on a blazing, wild journey. His hand shifted to the side of her neck and their noses bumped and their tongues brushed. Her pulse throbbed in her throat and her breasts felt heavy and her hand rose to the back of his head to encourage him.
The snow could have stopped and spring arrived for all she knew of time and space, because her world was only heat and his tantalizing taste and an earthy invitation to pleasure. So much pleasure beckoned it was irresistible. She instinctively recognized him and this as one of those things in life that others were allowed to experience and indulge in that she wasn’t entitled to have. Not material possessions, but luck and joy and those wonderful blessings that certain people fell into without trying. Such things always seemed to evade her best efforts to grasp them, but she bet he got all the best parts of life without even trying.
“Scott!” someone shouted. “Get a room.”
With a sharp inhale, he broke away, but stayed close enough to balance his brow against hers. He breathed a laughing curse against her chin.
“Bad form on my part, doing that here, but I’ve been dying to kiss you all night. It’s these dimples.” He brushed a fingertip against one, then pressed his lips to it. “Too cute to resist.”
“No,” she groaned, losing her smile. “Koala bears are cute. I want to be admired for my character, like my conscientious recycling and my reliable punctuality.”
“Mmm.” He nodded with amusement. “Those are also qualities I find completely irresistible.” He chuckled and kissed her once more before he drew back. “What I was trying to say before you emptied my brain was that I don’t know if I have any condoms at home. I’ll have to stop on the way.”
Her senses were still spinning, but beneath it was the knowledge that a hard crash would follow whatever soaring heights she achieved with him. If she had any sense of self-preservation, this was a good moment to exercise it and ask him to take her home after all. She didn’t want him to break her heart and she knew without a doubt that he could and would.
“Okay,” she said.
* * *
“What are you doing later tonight?”
Becca’s ears rang as Van’s voice dragged her from her ruminations. Her heart swerved at the jarring sensation of leaping from the beginning of their relationship to the end.
“Pardon?”
“You said ‘déjà vu.’ Never mind,” he dismissed with a self-deprecating wave.
