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weeks, why wait until tomorrow?”
    He put a hand to the back of her neck, dipped her back so he could look at her face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
    She breathed in the scent of him. So uniquely his and so utterly seductive to her. “Yes.”

5
    H E DROVE BESIDE THE OCEAN, gray and moody as though depressed by the constant rain. He’d never realized how much he liked rain until he lived away from it. There was something comforting and familiar about the pound of raindrops on the roof, the splash of puddles in the road.
    â€œWhere are we going?” she asked once, as they headed over Lions Gate Bridge and into West Vancouver.
    â€œMy place.”
    â€œYou keep a place here?”
    â€œSure. 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.
    â€œOh, Jarrad,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
    â€œI’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 hurtingher, 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.
    â€œSo 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