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  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.

  After dinner, the limo returned and he dropped her off properly at home. Outside her place, he walked her to her door and kissed her cheek when they reached it.

  “Thanks for a great evening,” he said. He actually sounded as if he meant it, but then she had to remember that he was new to this celebrity business. After a few years, he’d probably find it a little irksome. Of course, if he really did become the next Michael Bublé, he was going to have a lot more heat than she ever would. “You’re welcome.”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “So, are you okay to go to the Grammys with me?”

  “If you’re sure?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? Okay. I’ll call you.”

  And he was gone.

  She knew the piece was airing the next day, but didn’t bother to watch. She’d long ago lost the thrill of seeing herself in the media.

  She’d have assumed her mother had also, so when she called, saying, “Did you see the piece on TV?” Becky was surprised.

  “No. I—”

  “Well, you’d better take a look at it, young lady, and call me right back.” And her mother slammed down the phone. It had been some time since she’d been called young lady in that tone of voice. Something seriously strange must have happened. eChat Canada would repeat in an hour, but in the meantime she turned on her computer and checked Google. She typed in her name and Cory’s and, to her horror, a whole pile of hits showed up. She clicked the headline of a gossip blog: Skating Star in Love Triangle with Crooner and Hockey Jock.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned as she clicked the link. A photo came up of her and Cory looking pretty cozy, and he was quoted in the eChat interview as saying she was his muse and that he was writing a song for her. Oh, gag.

  But below that was a less professional but distressingly clear photo of her and Taylor taken while they were playing pool. No way they could claim “just friends” when the photographer had caught them locked in each other’s arms, kissing. And then a second photo that clearly showed their faces. She frantically thought back to that night, but all she remembered were the couple they’d played against. If they’d recognized either of them, they hadn’t said anything. Had they then rushed out to call the media? But no, she and Taylor had left first.

  Only then did she remember the students playing darts.

  And every one of them probably had a cell phone equipped with a camera.

  Covering her face with her hands didn’t really help. Her palms became a kind of screen on which played the pool evening. Her secret night out with her lover. Which had nothing to do with her so carefully orchestrated dating life.

  She picked up the phone. Dialed.

  “Hey, sexy,” Taylor’s voice was laid-back, as though nothing was worth getting in too much of a bother over.

  “Have you seen the news?”

  “If there’s another oil spill, don’t even tell me. I swear—”

  “It’s not an environmental disaster,” she snapped. “It’s a personal one.�