The Fearless Maverick

CHAPTER FOUR

HALF an hour later, Libby walked through the entrance of her city office. Behind the front desk, her twenty-one-year-old receptionist, Payton Nagle, flicked back her waist-length chestnut hair and beamed out an enthusiastic smile.

‘Sooooo … how was the superstar?’

Containing a grin, Libby crossed over and scooped up the morning mail from the counter’s top shelf. ‘Still shining bright.’

‘What’s he like?’ Eyes round, Payton tipped forward. ‘Is he as sexy in real life as he is on the TV?’

‘I’d have to say sexier,’ Libby replied, matter-of-factly. The man was so sexy, it was criminal.

Falling back in her seat, Payton sighed long and hard at the ceiling. ‘That strong square jaw, that deep to-die-for Brit accent … Honestly, Libby, I don’t know how you stopped from swooning.’

‘I’m a professional, Payton,’ Libby said, shuffling through letters and invoices. ‘Professionals aren’t allowed to swoon.’ Or rather they weren’t allowed to let those kinds of unprofessional feelings show.

She set down the mail and drilled her receptionist with her most serious gaze. ‘Remember, not one word about my appointments with Alex Wolfe to anyone. He wants the press to think he’s flown back to the UK or the paparazzi would be all over this. He doesn’t want the situation with his shoulder made out to be any worse than it is.’

Didn’t want to be projected as a cripple.

Shaking off that thought, Libby stretched toward the keyboard to check her email account while Payton crossed her heart to seal the promise. ‘Did you tell him about your surfing?’

Libby recalled her thoughts from earlier, when she’d left Alex Wolfe and his premises. Other than the everyday reminder below her left knee, ‘That part of my life’s behind me.’

Payton’s brows tugged together. ‘But being a world champion … it’s something you’d have in common.’

‘I’m not there for chitchat.’

Or here, for that matter.

Setting her mind squarely back on business, Libby moved toward her office. A long low whistle, the sound of a missile falling, came from behind.

Hands on hips, Libby rotated back.

Payton was twirling a thick strand of hair around an index finger. ‘You really like him, don’t you?’

Libby’s eyes bugged out. Like him?

‘Payton, he’s impossibly arrogant. Consumed by his own celebrity. And besides that …’ Libby’s fists loosened, her inflexible look melted and, beaten, she exhaled. ‘Besides that, any woman with her full quota of hormones couldn’t help but like him.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s drugging. Same way honey is to a bee.’

‘I wonder …’ An eyebrow arched as Payton twirled more hair. ‘Are you the honey or the bee?’

Libby coughed out a laugh. If Payton was suggesting that Alex Wolfe found her irresistible …!

‘I’m neither,’ Libby replied in an end-of-conversation tone. ‘I’m a physiotherapist who has a full day ahead of her. As does her receptionist.’

Moving into her office, Libby shut the door and took two calming breaths to rein in the cantering pace of her heartbeat. She and Payton might be friends but foremost she was the younger woman’s employer. Someone Payton should be able to hold up as an example. Revealing a vulnerable side—the purely female side that found Alex Wolfe absurdly attractive—had been foolish. And a onetime mistake.

Crossing to her desk, Libby told herself that Mr Wolfe had fleets of starry-eyed admirers the globe over, women who dreamed about being with him, talking to him, doing for him. They would also dream about how that kissable mouth might feel sensually closing over theirs, or the way he might move when he made hot, unhurried love deep into the night.

Resigned, Libby dropped into her chair.

Hell, she wasn’t so different to those other mesmerised hoards. And that had to stop.

She knew Alex Wolfe’s type. World Number Ones were all about staying on top. He would use anything and everything within his means to have her capitulate, wave her physio’s green flag and get himself back on the track whether his injury was sufficiently healed or not. But no matter how distracting Mr Wolfe’s looks and charm, she would not let herself be manipulated. There was only one thing for it.

Spine straight, knees together, she swept up her schedule.

From now on she would be nothing but objective in his company. Ruthlessly ethical. A consummate, non-sexual, iron-willed professional.

Ready to sort through the papers on her desk, Libby had collected a pen when a pang in her chest had her catching her breath. The thought had crept up on her like a frost on nightfall, and now that the reflection was formed she couldn’t blot it out. Couldn’t shake it off.

After her accident she’d thrown herself into study, then the practice. No energy was left over for window-shopping for knee-high dresses she would never wear or wondering if sometime, somewhere, she might meet someone new. She was too busy—too focused—and she preferred her life that way.

Now, for the first time in so long, she gave into the impulse, closed her eyes and remembered what it was like to be kissed by a man. How wonderful it could feel to be desired. She remembered the swell of want when tender words were whispered and steaming hungry flesh met flesh. Then she recalled the pure elation of spearing through a saltwater mountain and shooting free the other side. Her mind joined the two and drew a picture of a tall strong man, the lacy fringes of ocean waves swirling around his ankles, grey eyes smiling.

Squeezing the pen, Libby bowed her head. As well as she knew her own name, she was certain she would never return to the ocean. As much as she missed the water that was one challenge she didn’t need to face. But would she ever know romantic love again?

She hadn’t let herself dwell before now but, in truth, she missed the company, the sense of sharing, the special warmth of intimacy. And as silly as it sounded, she couldn’t help but wonder.

What would it be like to have all that with Alex?

The next morning, her professional mask firmly in place, Libby arrived at Alex Wolfe’s elite address smack on nine. As he had the day before, Alex greeted her at the door, escorted her inside, then led her into a spacious room—an elaborate home gym toward the rear of the enormous house.

Libby almost gasped. She’d seen licensed gyms less equipped than this. Every type of weight equipment, three state-of-the-art treadmills, six rowing machines, various balls, mats, presses and bars. A small double-glazed window set in an adjacent wood panelled wall indicated a sauna. Did the man host boot-camp parties? That indoor pool she’d imagined must be close by. Not that they’d be using it. She would always love the smell and look of water any way it came—sea, chlorinated or fresh from the sky. But her mermaid days were long over.

Arm in its sling, Alex sauntered over to join her. ‘Should we start with a cup of strong tea before getting into the tough stuff?’

As usual that deep accented voice seeped through Libby’s blood, making her syrupy warm all over. Ignoring the heat, aware of the dangers, she steeled herself, met his gaze and set her work bag on a nearby table. He might be king of his profession but during these sessions, like it or not, she was in charge.

‘We’ll begin with a full assessment.’ She nodded at his immobilised arm. ‘Now that we’ll be concentrating on strengthening your shoulder, there won’t be a need for that.’

With a speculative smile, Alex reached for a fastener. ‘My shirt will need to come off too, I presume.’

‘I’ll help with the buttons.’

When she didn’t hesitate to step forward and assist, his brows hiked but she didn’t react. He could turn on the wicked charm all he liked, but if he’d hoped to put her off balance again today, he could think again. She’d made a pledge and she intended to keep it.

Iron-willed.

Asexual.

Professional.

With the sling removed, she deftly unbuttoned his freshly laundered chambray shirt. The subtle smell of lemons drifted into her lungs, but the scent that truly caught her senses was musky. Pure male. A scent she wasn’t unfamiliar with in her everyday work. But, of course, Alex Wolfe went a mile beyond ‘everyday.’

Last button attended to, she eased the shirt off those dynamite shoulders, then manoeuvred around to release the fabric from his back. As the shirt fell away, her gaze gravitated to the muscular contours, the straight-as-a-die dent of his spine, the lean measure of his hips. Her heart began to pound. She thought she’d prepared herself but, frankly, the sight of this man half naked stole her breath away.

Thrusting back her shoulders, she once again set her mind on the specialist straight and narrow.

‘Let’s start with testing your range of movement.’

She asked that he first raise his arms in front, palm down, as high as possible, then at his sides. Next, internal and external rotation, with his hands behind his back.

While making notes—the ROM around the joint was not full, which meant passive work to help it improve—she said, ‘Now we’ll test the strength.’

His good shoulder squared. ‘Ready when you are, doc.’

Navigating around to face him, Libby found herself analysing that amazing chest and powerhouse arms from a female rather than professional point of view. Big mistake. Her brain began to tingle at the same time her bones seemed to liquefy. She’d laid awake half the night telling herself she could handle whatever today might bring and yet she’d missed the turn-off coming here because she’d been contemplating precisely this moment.

Resisting the urge to wet her lips, she eased her gaze higher and met his amused look. Then one corner of his mouth slowly curved and her face flooded with heat. Caught out, she stuttered an excuse. She hadn’t been ogling. Merely … assessing.

‘You, uh, obviously work out,’ she said, and then inwardly cringed.

Stupid. He was a World Number One. Of course he worked out. No doubt there’d be gyms in his other houses around the world, and the best personal trainers, as well as a food plan to sustain the mind and might of a champion.

She cleared her throat. ‘What I mean to say is … despite your injury, you look great.’

His lips tilted more at the same time he seemed to move slightly closer, lean faintly nearer, and the heat in her cheeks exploded, raging out of control as that natural male scent enveloped her completely.

His gaze skimming her cheek, he murmured, ‘Thank you.’

Gulping back a breath, she averted her gaze and muttered, ‘You’re welcome.’

She imagined that he chuckled to himself before he asked, ‘Where would you like me?’

With unsteady steps, she crossed to a mirror that covered an entire wall. ‘We’ll start here. You in front facing the mirror. I’ll stand behind.’

He took up his position, steely legs in black athlete’s shorts pinned apart. His slightly cleft chin angled up. ‘How’s this?’

Libby was torn between sighing and smirking at the magnificent reflection. As if he didn’t know he looked better than fabulous.

‘That’s fine. Now hold your arms out at right angles to your body.’ His arms rose easily. ‘Any pain?’

‘It feels …’ The chiselled planes of his face pinched. ‘A little weak.’

She grunted. She’d bet more than ‘a little.’

‘I’m going to test that strength. I’ll put one hand here on the uninjured arm and the other here, on your recovering arm.’

As she laid a palm on each bicep, she felt the vibration … his chest rumbling, the sound of a big cat anticipating a full bucket of cream or, perhaps, defending it.

Locking off her imagination, she continued. ‘Now I’ll push lightly.’

‘Would you like me to push too? You know—’ his left bicep flexed twice beneath her hand ‘—push up?’

She met his poker-faced reflection and simmered inside. Damn the man! He’d done that little trick on purpose. This wasn’t a contest or a show. Every session, every minute, counted. He needed to take this seriously.

Filling her lungs, she reassembled her patience. ‘I’ll push down and you try to resist.’

Gently she put weight on each arm. His left stayed parallel. His right came down.

His cool expression dissolved and a crease cut between his brows. ‘That’s no good.’

‘With your injury, it’s normal. We’ll get there.’

‘Yes, we will. In time for China.’

She held off gaping at his implacable tone. But she had no intention of arguing that particular point now. She had a job to do. His shoulder would be fit for a return to the track when she said it was and not a moment before.

‘Would you go over there and lie down, please?’

Holding his injured arm, Alex looked her up and down, as if deciding whether it would weaken his position to comply. Then he reluctantly crossed the room, hitched up on the bed’s white sheet and spread out.

Edging closer, she scanned the exquisite form lying before her and swallowed against the rapid pulse beating high in her throat. He looked even better on his back than he had standing. The rectus abdominis had been sculpted by a god. The tone of his trapesius and deltoids were exceptional. The pectoralis majors, dusted with crisp hair, were as first-rate an example as she’d ever seen—and she’d seen a few. Powerful, firm, prime flesh. Below that waist band, Libby imagined another well defined muscle and her mouth went dry.

He pushed up on his good arm and his broad shoulders slanted toward her. ‘Maybe we should start with something more strenuous. You know, get the show on the road.’

‘No, Alex. We shouldn’t.’

His jaw shifted and eyes narrowed. ‘I can’t see what lying around will achieve.’

‘Leave that to me.’

His gaze pierced hers, challenging, testing. Finally he rolled back down, looking like a third grader forced to face some senseless spelling bee he hadn’t studied for.

He stared blindly at the ceiling. ‘What now?’

Alongside of him, Libby took both his hands, which felt as hot and strong as the rest of him looked. Her fingers curled around his and she brought them to lie near his navel. She refused to acknowledge the trail of dark hair descending in a particularly tantalising line to the loose band of his shorts, much less the subtle bulge further down.

‘No pain?’ she asked in a remarkably composed voice.

His gaze met hers and, confident, he grinned. ‘Not a hint.’

‘Good. Now slowly lift your arms.’

‘How high?’

‘See how you go. I’ll go through the exercise with you first.’ With his hands sandwiched between hers, a hot pulse beating through her blood, she began to move with him. ‘Up, two, three … hold and … down, two, three.’ Her words were even, regulated, the opposite of her clambering heartbeat. ‘How’s that feel?’

‘Up. Down. Up. Down.’ She felt his curious gaze on hers. ‘How much longer?’

‘A few more times.’

Any moment she expected him to protest again but as their breathing synchronised with the movements, he seemed to accept the inevitable. So while they finished the set, she focused on his shoulder, as well as his expression for signs of discomfort. Her gaze drifted to gauge the steady breathing of that glorious chest and before she could rein her straying thoughts in, she imagined her palms gliding over that granite surface and her lips brushing those small dark discs.

Hauling herself back with a start, Libby lowered their hands a final time and took a resolute step away.

‘That’s it?’ he asked, sounding pleased.

She patted her hair, which she’d worn in a low bun with multiple pins today. ‘Now I’ll show you an easy exercise to continue with.’ An active as opposed to passive version of the exercise they’d done together. ‘And we’ll work in some remedial massages along the way.’

But he growled. ‘I don’t need massages. I don’t want easy.’

What he really meant was, This soft stuff is a waste of time.

Tucking in her chin, Libby took stock.

This time with Alex Wolfe would be more difficult than she’d thought. She knew Alex was beyond eager to get back onto the track and that he was beyond confident about his abilities. She respected where that energy came from … an unconquerable winner’s spirit. That quality, however, did not excuse his veiled attempt to bribe her, suggesting she convince the team doctor that he was fit and well to drive whether he was or he wasn’t. Nor did it excuse that forceful tone.

Regardless, the bottom line was that she’d taken on this case, which meant she would give it her all and then some, whether Alex Wolfe appreciated her own brand of zealousness or not. If he decided their relationship wasn’t working, he could sack her, but she wasn’t about to quit, or double guess herself at every turn. He’d thought enough of her credentials to hire her in the first place after all.

‘Alex, I appreciate your … enthusiasm, but I’m going to ask you to leave the program to me.’

‘Just as long as we’re in tune with what I need.’

What I expect, he should have said.

Her smile was thin. ‘I know precisely what you need.’

His gaze pierced hers and she thought he might push his point to make himself clear. The simmering in his eyes said he would miss not one more race than he thought he had to. Every round he didn’t drive took him further away from the means to retain his title, and anyone who tried to stop him was public enemy number one.

But then the thrust of his shadowed jaw eased, his trademark grin returned and he added in a placated tone, ‘Pleased to know we’re on the same page.’

They continued to work out with similar isometrics. After thirty minutes, she caught him flinching so she called an end to their first session.

‘That’ll do for today,’ she said, heading off to collect her bag.

He was standing, hands threaded behind to allow a gentle stretch between the blades. With his brow damp from rehabilitative work his body wasn’t used to, he joined her. ‘So you’re leaving?’

‘I have other appointments.’

She was sure he wouldn’t be lonely. He must have acquaintances in Sydney he could catch up with. No doubt many wore skirts.

While she found her car keys, he eased into his shirt. Leaving it unbuttoned—an unabashed encore, she supposed—he escorted her out of the gym. Halfway down the long northern hall, that enormous storage block, visible beyond a set of soaring windows, caught her eye.

Curious, she slowed up. ‘What do you keep out there?’

‘Three guesses.’

She only needed one. ‘Cars.’

He laughed and the deep, easy sound—as warm as a blanket on a cold night—made her forget what a privileged pain in the butt he could be at times.

‘Come and have a look,’ he said. When she opened her mouth to object, he broke in. ‘Surely you can spare five minutes.’

Libby thought it over. Her next appointment wasn’t for an hour, and she was intrigued as to how many and what types of cars a motor racing champion owned. She knew Payton would be interested to hear.

Relenting, and more than a little excited, she nodded. ‘Five minutes.’

His grey eyes smiled, but in a different way—as if he truly appreciated her interest—and together they walked out the house, past the magazine lift-out pool and over the immaculate emerald-green lawn.

‘Where did it all start,’ she asked, ‘this love affair with cars and speed?’

‘My father owned prestige automobiles, everything from vintage classics to top-of-the-range sports cars. Every now and then I’d take one out.’

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