The Fearless Maverick. Robyn Grady
one corner of his mouth.
Ms Henderson was an attractive prospect, particularly with those large amber-coloured eyes that seemed to both cloak her emotions as well as swirl with boundless possibilities. Her hair, which flowed past her shoulders in soft waves, was a captivating silvery blond, a consequence, no doubt, of a lifetime spent in Australia’s surf-and-sun conditions. Of medium height, her lithe figure had curves in all the right places. If she’d tried to hide that fact beneath her designer business suit, she’d failed and she knew it.
Perhaps best of all, he thought as he watched her car disappear beyond the auto iron entry gates, Libby Henderson had spunk.
She’d as good as accepted his offer—to work here on him, with him. However, she’d let him know that he didn’t intimidate her, even if they were aware of each other in a primal man-wants-woman way. When her palm had cupped his fist, she’d felt the zap as much as he had. But her comeback regarding the insignificance of what clothes he did or did not wear during their sessions had been priceless. Few people could pull him up like that. Coming from Ms Henderson, he couldn’t say he minded.
Clearly, she was the right person for the job. With his past, he didn’t wait around for miracles, nevertheless he had faith that Libby Henderson’s clients believed she could work them. Regardless, he would have little trouble persuading her and, as a consequence, others that he was indeed fit to drive again when he deemed it should be so. And if she needed a hand in helping her decision along, he wasn’t opposed to the idea. In fact, now that he’d met her, he was more than intrigued by the prospect.
Recalling the natural wiggle in her walk, he pushed off the column.
Until that time, he needed to focus elsewhere. Needed to keep busy. Tomorrow midday, a videoconference with the Australian CEO of his best-selling signature-brand aftershave was scheduled. Before then, he’d go through projection figures for an additional anticipated range. Along with earnings from his extensive investment portfolio, he certainly didn’t need the money, but a man would be a fool not to strike when his iron was hot. Current and potential sponsors agreed: Alex Wolfe was steaming. He intended to keep it that way.
About to head in, he pulled up. Eli Steele’s sleek black sports car was slinking up the drive. Grinning, Alex crossed back to the patio’s edge. Not only was his assistant smart in a business sense, he had a good head for cars. Eli wouldn’t be working for him if he didn’t.
‘I take it that was your physiotherapist driving off,’ Eli said, easing out the driver’s side door. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Well.’ After Eli made his way up the steps, Alex clapped his friend on the back with his free hand. ‘You did a fine job finding her.’
Eli drove a set of fingers over his scalp, ruffling his neat dark hair. ‘So she’s on board?’
‘I’ve explained I need to be back in the seat no later than Round Four.’ Two weeks shy of the six weeks the team doctor had insisted upon, which would leave him in a good position to retain his title.
Inside the vestibule, they hung a right and sauntered down the hall which led to Alex’s home office.
‘And she said she can accommodate?’ Eli asked.
‘Was there any doubt?’
‘Only on my part, it seems.’
Frowning, Alex stopped. ‘Run that by me again?’
Eli kept walking. ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m convinced she does great work, but from what I’ve read she seems to have a granite mindset as well. I didn’t think she’d roll over and agree to your time frame that easily.’
Outside the billiards room, Eli waited for his boss to catch up.
Digesting the information, Alex began to walk again. ‘You sound unhappy about her being onside.’
‘You want to race,’ Eli explained, ‘and you want to win. Clearly you can handle pain. But, Alex, you don’t want to risk this injury getting worse. This is the second time that joint has given you trouble. Third time it’ll be easier to damage still. If that happens you could be out for a lot longer than six weeks.’
They entered the office, its walls lined with framed shots capturing some heady moments on the track as well as the winner’s podium—holding up a plate at Monaco, shooting champagne over an ecstatic crowd. Alex’s favourite trophy by far was a homemade medal, which hung on a haberdashery store’s dark blue ribbon. Made out of an inexpensive key ring and a portion of a wheel spike, the good-luck charm had been given to him many years ago by his mentor, a man to whom Alex owed everything—Carter White. Encouragement, belief. Carter had given the rebel teen Alex had once been the tools needed to succeed, which included the gift of a caring father figure Alex had sorely lacked at home. He really ought to pick up the phone and call Carter sometime.
Crossing to his desk, Alex collected the documents he’d received from that CEO and the bold Alex Wolfe logo caught his eye. Everyone was eager to see how far his brand-name net would fly and Eli was great to bounce new ideas and strategies off. He was more than an assistant; Eli was a first-class friend. They’d known each other only three years and yet Eli was closer to him than any of his brothers. Not that Alex blamed anyone for that … or, rather, he blamed no one other than the man who had single-handedly torn his own family apart: William Wolfe, may he rot in hell.
And he was seriously giving too much thought to all this lately but, for once, he couldn’t seem to avoid it.
Staring blindly at those documents, Alex recalled how he’d waited until he’d left the hospital to reread Annabelle’s email and compose an adequate reply.
Great to hear about Jacob’s return and Nathaniel’s upcoming nuptials, it had said. Can’t believe he’s old enough to tie the knot! Will be in contact again soon. Hope you’re well. Love to you, Alex.
He’d thought about phoning; he had her number. But he knew Annabelle favoured email. Frankly, in this circumstance, so did he. Not that he and Annabelle didn’t speak every couple of years or so … but never about that night. Not about what a different girl Annabelle was now from the lively chit she’d once been.
Alex lowered into his high-back leather chair, only half hearing Eli’s last remark.
‘… I’m sure Libby Henderson explained that to you.’
Alex’s thoughts slid all the way back. Eli was talking about the increased chance of incurring a similar injury to his shoulder in the future.
‘I’ll keep up the exercises,’ Alex said, ‘and whatever else she prescribes.’
‘As long as you don’t screw it up permanently in the meantime by going back to the track too soon.’
Alex tossed a wry look around the walls, covered with victory memorabilia. ‘I think I’ve done fairly well so far.’
But when Eli’s dark blue gaze dropped and he rubbed the scar above his temple the way he did whenever he had something more to say, Alex blew out a breath and set the document down on the desk with a slap.
‘Spit it out.’
Eli edged a hip over the corner of the polished rosewood desk and gave a shrug that said he was perplexed. ‘I guess I’d expected Libby Henderson to put up at least a half-decent fight.’
In truth, Alex had expected that too. She’d almost agreed too easily to his generous offer. Nevertheless, ‘Money’s a strong motivator. With that kind of dosh on the table and the endorsements I’ll flick her way, she’d be a fool not to jump at this chance.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought she’d be motivated by money any more than you are.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You seriously don’t recognise the name?’
Alex rolled it over in his mind and came up a blank. ‘Sorry.’
‘Elizabeth