The Fearless Maverick. Robyn Grady
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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