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The Fearless Maverick
Robyn Grady


Alex… Thrill-seeker. Player. Champion. Driven to succeed, Alex’s only desire is to win, win, win – at all costs! A champion race-car driver, he lives like he drives – fast, reckless and always number one… But after a huge crash, his racing career facing ruin, Alex must confront his biggest fear: failure.Physio Libby Henderson is there to help him get back to fitness, and all Alex wants to do is get physical! Libby’s dealt with more challenging things in life, but it’s taking all of her professionalism to keep this stubborn playboy at bay!










With his good arm, Alex reached and drew her near. He saw her eyes flare and knew a moment when she might have told him to back off and let her be.

But then the breath seemed to leave her body, her lids grew heavy, then he saw her heart glistening there in her eyes. He was right. This situation—this maddening push and pull—couldn’t go on. Now was the time to end it. And end it his way.

Even as Alex’s head slanted over hers and Libby drifted off into the caress, some weak desperate part of her cried out that this should not, could not, happen. But as the kiss deepened she forgot the reasons why. The slow velvet slide of his tongue over hers, the way his hands pressed her gloriously near …

This might be dangerous, but it felt so infinitely right.

Her palms ironed up over his bare hot chest at the same time his hands pressed down over her back. His head angled as he curled over her, his touch sculpting her behind, hooking around her thigh and urging it to curl around his hip as his pelvis locked with hers. She felt the glide of his hand scooping around her thigh, sliding lower toward her knee—

Breathless—terrified—she yanked away.

Oh God, she’d vowed this wouldn’t happen again.

She didn’t want him to know.


BAD BLOOD

A powerful dynasty, where secrets and scandal never sleep!

THE DYNASTY

Eight siblings, blessed with wealth, but denied the one thing they wanted—a father’s love.

A family destroyed by one man’s thirst for power.

THE SECRETS

Haunted by their past and driven to succeed, the Wolfes scattered to the far corners of the globe.

But secrets never sleep and scandal is starting to stir …

THE POWER

Now the Wolfe brothers are back, stronger than ever, but hiding hearts as hard as granite.

It’s said that even the blackest of souls can be healed by the purest of love. But can the dynasty rise again?




About the Author


One Christmas long ago, ROBYN GRADY received a book from her big sister and immediately fell in love with Cinderella. Sprinklings of magic, deepest wishes come true—she was hooked! Picture books with glass slippers later gave way to romance novels and, more recently, the real-life dream of writing for Mills & Boon.

After a fifteen-year career in television, Robyn met her own modern-day hero. They live on Australia’s Sunshine Coast with their three little princesses, two poodles, and a cat called Tinkie. Robyn loves new shoes, worn jeans, lunches at Moffat Beach and hanging out with her friends on eHarlequin. Learn about her latest releases at www.robyngrady.com, and don’t forget to say hi. She’d love to hear from you!




BAD BLOOD

FEARLESS MAVERICK







ROBYN GRADY












www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




CHAPTER ONE


THE moment Alex Wolfe’s car went airborne, he knew the situation was bad. That’s ‘serious injury’ or possibly even ‘get ready to meet your maker’ bad.

He’d been approaching the chicane at the end of a straight at Melbourne’s premier motor racing circuit and, misjudging his breaking point, he’d gone into the first turn too deep. He’d tried to drive through the corner but when the wheels had aquaplaned on standing water, he’d slid out and slammed into a tyre stack wall, which provided protection not only for runaway cars and their drivers but also for crowds congregated behind the guard rail.

Like a stone spat from a slingshot, he’d ricocheted off the rubber and back into the path of the oncoming field. He didn’t see what happened next but, from the almighty whack that had spun him out of control, Alex surmised another car had T-boned his.

Now, as he sliced through space a metre above the ground, time seemed to slow to a cool molasses crawl as snapshots from the past flickered and flashed through his mind. Anticipating the colossal slam of impact, Alex cursed himself for being a fool. World Number One three seasons running—some said the best there’d ever been—and he’d broken racing’s cardinal rule. He’d let his concentration slip. Allowed personal angst to impair his judgement and screw with his performance. The news he’d received an hour before climbing into the cockpit had hit him that hard.

After nearly twenty years, Jacob was back?

Now Alex understood why his twin sister had persisted in trying to contact him these past weeks. He’d been thrown when he’d received her first email and had held off returning Annabelle’s messages for precisely this reason. He couldn’t afford to get wound up and distracted by—

Driving down a breath, Alex thrust those thoughts aside.

He simply couldn’t get distracted, is all.

With blood thumping like a swelling ocean in his ears, Alex gritted his teeth and strangled the wheel as the 420-kilo missile pierced that tyre wall. An instant later, he thudded to a jarring halt and darkness, black as the apocalypse, enveloped him. Momentum demanded he catapult forward but body and helmet harnesses kept him strapped—or was that trapped?—inside. Wrenched forward, Alex felt his right shoulder click and bleed with pain that he knew would only get worse. He also knew he should get out fast. Their fuel tanks rarely ruptured and fire retardant suits were a wonderful thing; however, nothing stopped a man from roasting alive should his car happen to go up in flames.

Entombed beneath the weight of the tyres, Alex fought the overwhelming urge to try to punch through rubber and drag himself free, but disorientated men were known to stagger into the path of oncoming cars. Even if he could claw his way out, procedure stated rescue teams assist or, at the least, supervise occupants from any wreck.

Holding his injured arm, Alex cursed like he’d never cursed before. Then he squinted through the darkness and, in a fit of frustration, roared out in self-disgust.

‘Can we try that again? I know I can cock up more if I really set my mind to it!’

Claustrophobic seconds crept by. Gritting his teeth, Alex concentrated on the growl of V8s whizzing past, rather than the growing throb in his shoulder. Then a different group of engines sped up—medical response units. Surrounded by the smell of fumes and rubber and his own sweat, Alex exhaled a shuddery breath. Motor racing was a dangerous sport. One of the most dangerous. But the monumental risks associated with harrowing speeds were also the ultimate thrill and the only life to which Alex had ever wanted to ascribe. Racing not only gave him immense pleasure, it also provided the supreme means of escape. God knows there’d been plenty to run from growing up at Wolfe Manor.

The muffled cries of track marshals filtered through and Alex came back to the present as a crane went to work. Bound stacks of tyres were removed and soon shafts of light broke through.

A marshal, in his bright orange suit, poked his head in. ‘You all right?’

‘I’ll live.’

The marshal had already removed the steering wheel and was assessing what he could of the car’s warped safety cell. ‘We’ll have you out in a minute.’

To face a barrage of questions? The humiliation? And at some stage he’d have to tackle that other problem, which had set off this whole shambles.

‘No chance of leaving me here, I suppose.’

The marshal took in Alex’s sardonic smile and sent a consoling look. ‘There’ll be more races, son.’

Alex set his jaw.Damn right there will be.

The Jaws of Life arrived. Soon, sure hands were assisting him out and a world of fire-tipped arrows shot through that injured joint. Biting down, Alex edged out of the debris aware of fans’ applause resonating around the park. He let go supporting his right arm long enough to salute to the cheering crowd before sliding into a response unit.

Minutes later, inside the medical tent and out of his helmet and suit, Alex rested back on a gurney. Morrissey, the team doctor, checked out his shoulder, applied a cold press, then searched for signs of concussion and other injuries. Morrissey was serving up something for the pain and inflammation when team owner, Jerry Squires, strode in.

The son of a British shipping tycoon, Jerry had lost an eye as a child and was well known for the black patch he wore. He was better known, however, for his staggering wealth and no-nonsense attitude. Today, with his usually neat steel-grey hair mussed, Jerry spoke in gravelled tones to the doctor.

‘What’s the worst?’

‘He’ll need a complete physical evaluation … X-rays and MRI,’ Morrissey replied, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose as he scribbled notes on a clipboard. ‘He’s sustained a subluxation to his right shoulder.’

Jerry sucked air in between his teeth. ‘Second race of the season. At least we still have Anthony.’

At the mention of his team’s second driver, Alex pushed to sit up. Everyone was jumping the gun! He wasn’t out of the game yet.

But then the pain in that joint flared and burned like Hades. Breaking into a fresh sweat, he rested back on the elevated pillows and managed to put on his no-problem smile, the one that worked a charm on beautiful women and bristling billionaires.

‘Hey, settle down, Jer. You heard the man. It’s not serious. Nothing’s broken.’

The doctor lowered his clipboard enough for Alex to catch the disapproving angle of his brows. ‘That’s still to be determined.’

A pulse beat in Jerry’s clean-shaven jaw. ‘I appreciate your glass-half-full attitude, champ, but this is no time for a stiff upper lip.’ Jerry glanced out the window and scowled at the churning weather. ‘We should’ve gone with wets.’

Alex flinched, and not from physical pain. In hindsight, granted, he should have opted for wet-weather tyres. He’d explained his rationale to the team earlier when other pit crews were changing over. Now he’d reiterate for the man who forked over multiple millions to have him race as lead driver.

‘The rain had stopped ten minutes before the race began,’ Alex said, feeling Morrissey’s eagle eye pressing him to button up and rest. ‘The track was drying off. If I could make it through the first few laps—get a dry line happening—I’d be eating up the k’s while everyone else would be stuck in the pits changing back to slicks.’

Jerry grunted again, unconvinced. ‘You needed extra traction going into that chicane. Simple fact is, you called it wrong.’

Alex ground his back teeth against a natural urge to argue. He hadn’t called it wrong … but he had made a fatal error. His mind hadn’t been one hundred percent on the job. If it had been, he’d have aced that chicane and the race. Hell, anyone could drive in the dry; handling wet conditions was where a driver’s ability, experience and instinct shone through. And usually where Alex Wolfe excelled. He’d worked bloody hard to get where he was today—at the top—which was a far cry from the position he’d once filled: a delinquent who’d longed to flee that grotesquely elaborate, freakishly unhappy English manor that still sat on the outskirts of Oxfordshire.

But he’d left those memories behind.

Or he had until receiving those emails.

While Jerry, Morrissey and a handful of others conversed out of earshot, Alex mulled over his sister’s message. Annabelle had said Wolfe Manor had been declared a dangerous structure by the council and Jacob had returned to reinstate the house and grounds to their former infamous glory. Images of those centuries-old corridors and chunky dusty furniture came to mind, and Alex swore he could smell the dank and sour bouquet of his father’s favourite drop. The veil between then and now thinned more and he heard his father’s drunken ravings. Felt the slap of that belt on his skin.

Clamping his eyes shut, Alex shook off the revulsion. As the eldest, Jacob had inherited that mausoleum but, if it’d been left to him, Alex would gladly have bulldozed the lot.

Still, there’d been some good times as kids growing up. Alex had surrendered to a smile when Annabelle’s email also mentioned that Nathaniel, the youngest of the Wolfe clan—or of the legitimate children, at least—was tying the knot. A talent behind the lens for many years now, Annabelle was to be the official photographer. Alex had followed recent news of his actor brother in the papers … the night Nathaniel had walked out on his stage debut in the West End had caused a terrific stir. Then had come his Best Actor win last month in LA.

Alex absently rubbed his shoulder.

Little brother was all grown up, successful and apparently in love. Made him realise how much time had passed. How scattered they all were. He best remembered Nathaniel when he was little more than a skinny kid finding his own form of escape through entertaining his siblings, even at the expense of a backhand or two from the old man.

Voices filtered in and Alex’s thoughts jumped back. Across the room it seemed Jerry and Morrissey had finished their powwow and were ready to join him again.

His eyebrows knitted, the doctor removed his glasses. ‘I’ll attempt to reduce that joint now. The sooner it’s intact again, the better. We’re organising transport to Windsor Private for those follow-up tests.’

‘And when the tests come back?’ Alex asked.

‘There’ll be discussions with specialists to ascertain whether surgery’s needed—’

Alex’s pulse rate spiked. ‘Whoa. Slow down. Surgery?’

‘—or more likely some rest combined with a rehabilitation plan. It’s not the first time this has happened. That shoulder’s going to need some time,’ Morrissey said, tapping his glasses at the air to help make his point. ‘Don’t fool yourself it won’t.’

‘So long as I’m back in the cockpit in time to qualify in Malaysia.’

‘Next weekend?’ Morrissey headed for his desk. ‘Sorry, but you can forget about that.’

Ignoring the twist of fresh pain, Alex propped up on his left elbow and forced a wry laugh. ‘I think I’m the best judge of whether I’m fit to drive or not.’

‘Like you judged which tyres to kick off the race?’

Alex slid a look over to Jerry Squires at the same time his neck went hot and a retort burned to break free. But no good would come from indulging his temper when the frustration roiling inside of him should be directed at no one other than himself. No matter which way you sliced it, he’d messed up. Now, like it or not, he needed to knuckle down and play ball … but only for a finite period and largely on his own terms. Because make no mistake—if he had to miss the next race, he’d be in Shanghai for Round Four if it killed him.

First up he’d need to shake any press off his tail. After such a spectacular crash, questions regarding injuries and how they might impact on his career would be rife. The photographer jackals would be on the prowl, desperate to snap the shot of the season—the Fangio of his time, the great Alex Wolfe, grimacing in pain, his arm useless in a sling. Damned if he’d let the paparazzi depict him as a pitiful invalid.

Privacy was therefore a priority. Any recuperating would happen at his reclusive Rose Bay residence in Sydney. He’d source a professional who understood and valued the unique code elite athletes lived by. Someone who was exceptional at their work but who might also appreciate a lopsided grin or possibly an invitation to dinner when he was next in town, in exchange for which she would provide the medical all clear needed to get him back behind the wheel in time for Round Four qualifying.

As the painkiller kicked in and the screaming in his shoulder became more a raw groan, Alex closed his eyes and eased back against the gurney.

When his shoulder was popped back in and those initial tests were out of the way, he’d set his assistant, Eli Steele, on the case. He needed to find the right physiotherapist for the job. And he needed to find her fast. He’d lost far too much in his life.

God help him, he wasn’t losing this.




CHAPTER TWO


AS HER car cruised up a tree-lined drive belonging to one of the most impressive houses she’d ever seen, Libby Henderson blew the long bangs off her brow and again spooled through every one of her ‘I can do this’ and ‘There’s nothing to be nervous about’ affirmations.

As her stomach churned, Libby recalled how not so long ago she’d been a supremely self-confident type. Nothing had frightened her. Nothing had held her back. That verve had propelled her to dizzy heights—a place where she’d felt secure and alive and even admired. Twice Female World Surfing Champion. There were times she still couldn’t believe that fabulous ride had ended the way it had.

From an early age she’d taken to the surf. Libby’s parents had always referred to her as their little mermaid. Growing up she’d trained every minute she could grab—kayaking, swimming, body surfing, as well as honing her skills on a board. Nothing had felt better than the endorphins and burn she’d got from pushing beyond her limits.

Being a world champion had been the ultimate buzz—fabulous sponsors, high-end magazine spreads, the chance to speak with and even coach youngsters eager to surf their way up through the ranks. Out ahead, for as far as she could see, the horizon shone with amazing possibilities. Her accident had changed that.

But, thankfully, there’d been a life after celebrity and elite athlete status, just a different life. When she’d overcome the worst of her accident, she’d thrown herself into the study she’d previously set aside and had attained a Bachelor of Health Sciences in Physiotherapy at Sydney’s Bond University. She was beyond grateful her determination and hard work was paying off—today better than she’d ever dreamed.

As she swerved around the top end of the drive now, Libby recalled this morning’s unexpected phone call. None other than Alex Wolfe, the British-born motor racing champ who’d come to grief at the weekend, had requested her services. Mr Wolfe’s assistant, an efficient-sounding man by the name of Eli Steele, had relayed that he and Mr Wolfe had researched specialists in her profession extensively and had decided that her credentials best suited Mr Wolfe’s current needs with regard to the shoulder injury he’d sustained. Libby had to wonder precisely what credentials Eli referred to.

She worked almost exclusively with injured athletes but she’d never treated anyone near as renowned as this man. Perhaps Alex Wolfe, or his assistant, was aware of her former life, Libby surmised, slotting the auto shift into park and shutting down the engine. But had they dug deep enough to unearth how the final chapter of that part of her life had ended?

After opening the car door, Libby swung her legs out. Pushing to her feet, she surveyed the magnificent ultra-modern home as well as the surrounding pristine lawns and gardens. Rendered white with ultramarine and hardwood trims, the Rose Bay double-storey mansion spanned almost the entire width of the vast block. She imagined numerous bedrooms, each with their own en suite and spa bath. An indoor heated pool would provide luxurious laps during winter while an Olympic-size outdoor pool with trickling water features and, perhaps, a man-made beach would be the go during Sydney’s often scorching summer months.

Straightening the jacket of her cream and black-trim pants-suit, Libby craned her neck. A grand forecourt, decorated with trellised yellow-bell jasmine and topiaries set in waist-high terracotta pots, soared around her. Her eyes drifting shut, she inhaled nature’s sweet perfume and hummed out a sigh. In her sporting heyday, she’d earned good money but nothing compared with this unabashed show of wealth. Of course, the lucrative runoffs from the Alex Wolfe range of aftershave, clothing and computer games would contribute handsomely to his fortune. Charm, money, movie-star looks. Hell, Alex Wolfe had it all.

A thoroughly sexy voice, with a very posh English accent, broke into her thoughts.

‘I agree. It’s a cracking day. Perhaps we ought to chat out here.’

It started in her belly … a pleasant tingling heat that flooded her body in the same instant her eyes snapped wide open. On that extensive front patio, directly in front of her, stood a man. The man.

Alex Wolfe.

An embarrassing eternity passed before her stunned brain swam to the surface. Frankly, she’d never experienced a sight—a vision—quite like the one openly assessing her now. His lopsided grin was lazy, carving attractive grooves either side of a spellbinding mouth. His hair was a stylishly messy dark blond, the length of which curled off the collar of a teal-coloured polo shirt. And what about those shoulders! Mouthwateringly broad. Ubermasculine.

And let’s not forget, Libby warned herself, sucking down a breath, the only reason she was here.

Stopping long enough to think about which foot to put forward first, Libby pinned on a warm but businesslike smile and moved to join her newest client, whom, she noticed now, also wore a navy blue immobiliser sling.

‘I believe you were expecting me. I’m Libby Henderson. I was just admiring your home and gardens.’

He surveyed the vast front lawns and nodded as a gentle harbour breeze lifted dark blond hair off his brow. ‘I always enjoy my stints in Australia,’ he said. ‘The weather’s brilliant.’ Gorgeous soft grey eyes hooked back onto hers as he cocked his head. ‘I’d offer you my hand but …’

‘Your right shoulder’s giving you problems.’

‘Nothing too serious,’ he said, stepping aside to welcome her in.

Entering the foyer, which gave the modest size of her Manly apartment a decent run for its money, Libby considered his last comment. If Mr Wolfe’s injury had been enough to land him in hospital and warrant subsequent intensive treatment ordered by his team doctor, clearly it was serious enough. Her job was to make certain that full range of motion and strength returned and, despite any downplaying on his part, that’s precisely what she intended to do. Men like Alex Wolfe wanted to get back to it, and now. She understood that. Unfortunately, however, sometimes that wasn’t possible.

Forcing herself not to gape at the storybook multi-tiered staircase or the mirror-polished marble floors, Libby instead turned to her host as he closed the twelve-foot-high door. She suppressed a wry grin. Must be the butler’s day off.

‘Can I offer you a refreshment, Ms Henderson?’

As he passed to lead her through the spacious white, almost austere vestibule, Libby’s thoughts stuck on what should have been a simple question. But his tone implied that rather than coffee, any refreshment he offered might include something as social as champagne.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied, unable to keep her gaze from straying to the fluid style of his gait in those delectable custom-made black trousers as he moved off. Would he detect any peculiarities in her stride if their positions were reversed—she in front, he behind? But surely a man who’d dated supermodels and at least one European princess wouldn’t be interested enough to notice.

‘We’ll talk in the sunroom.’ Stopping before a set of double doors, he fanned open one side and she moved through.

After he’d closed this door too, he headed for a U-shaped group of three snowy-white leather couches. Beyond soaring arched windows sat that magnificent outdoor pool she’d imagined as well as a glamorous spa and stylish white wicker setting. A pool house, which mimicked the main building’s design, looked large enough to accommodate a family of four as well as friends. Positioned beyond the pool area was a massive storage block—she suspected a huge garage. All the world knew Mr Wolfe liked his cars.

He gestured to the closest couch. ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

Libby lowered back against the cushions and set her feet neatly together. Rather than taking up position on the opposite couch, Alex Wolfe settled down alongside of her. A flush crept up her neck and lit her cheeks. This man’s magnetism was a tangible, remarkable thing. His proximity to her on this couch couldn’t be deemed as inappropriate—at least an arm’s length separated them—and yet she couldn’t ignore the pull. Not that Mr Wolfe would purposely be sending out those kinds of vibes. He was simply … well, he was only …

Oh, dammit, he was sexy—beyond anything she’d ever experienced before.

As a film of perspiration cooled her nape, Libby edged an inch away while, holding the sling’s elbow, Alex stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. His feet were large, the shoes Italian. She noticed those things nowadays.

‘So, Ms Henderson, what do you have for me?’

‘I’ve studied the MRI scans,’ she began, her gaze tracing the line of that sling, ‘as well as the orthopaedic surgeon’s report outlining the details of the injury. Seems your shoulder didn’t suffer a complete dislocation, but rather a subluxation. Do you know what that means?’

‘My shoulder didn’t pop completely.’

She nodded. ‘In layman’s terms, that’s precisely it.’

When that amazing subtle smile lighting his eyes touched his mouth, Libby’s tummy fluttered and she cleared her throat. Yes, he’s an incredibly attractive man but, for God’s sake, concentrate! Her goal here wasn’t to get all starry-eyed but to have Alex Wolfe walk away from this episode fully recovered and bursting with glowing reports of her services. Hopefully, then, more of his ilk would follow and her reputation in her present career would be secured.

When she’d returned to her studies, she’d decided she wanted to work with elite athletes, that special breed that needed someone who not only understood how their bodies worked but also their minds, and who were prepared to do whatever it took to get back on top. Libby only wished she’d been given that option.

Centring her attention again, she threaded her fingers and set them on her lap. ‘Your medical records outline ligament damage to that shoulder in your teens.’

His eyes clouded over for an instant, so stormy and distant she might have mentioned the devil. But then his smile returned, and more hypnotic than before.

‘I came off a motorbike.’

She nodded. A natural thrillseeker, of course he’d have started out on two wheels. ‘I see.’

‘Do you like motor sports?’

‘I was more a water girl.’

‘Swimming? Skiing?’

That flush returned, a hot rash creeping over the entire length of her body. Feeling colour soak into her cheeks, she glanced down, unclasped her hands and smoothed the centre creases of her trousers. They weren’t here to discuss her history.

‘I have another appointment this afternoon, so perhaps we’d best stay on point.’

His gaze sharpened, assessing her, and he sat back. ‘I imagine your practice keeps you busy, Ms Henderson.’

‘Busy enough.’

‘But not on weekends.’

‘I work some Saturdays.’

‘Not Sundays?’

She blinked. ‘You think you’ll need me Sundays too?’

‘Let’s make it every weekday for now.’

‘Much of the work you can do without my help. Every second day would be sufficient.’

‘Every week day,’ he reiterated before smiling again. ‘Don’t worry, Ms Henderson. I promise my current predicament is extremely short-term.’

Libby’s breath left her lungs in a quiet rush. This man was a living legend. Revered by millions all over the world. He was the sporting hero that boys chasing one another in parks pretended to be. Was he being intentionally snide? Or just plain ‘I am invincible’ arrogant? Libby knew better than most.

No one was invincible.

‘We were discussing your previous injury,’ she went on in an implacable tone, ‘which could well have made you more susceptible to subsequent injuries. Let me explain.’ She shifted back against the cushions. ‘A joint dislocation, or luxation from the Latin, occurs when bones that join become displaced or misaligned usually through a sudden impact. The joint capsule, cartilage and ligaments become damaged. A subluxation, as occurred in your situation, Mr Wolfe, is a partial dislocation, which can occur as a result of previous damage to the surrounding structures of the shoulder. Either way there will be a weakening of the muscles and ligaments which need physiotherapy to help stabilise the joint.’

He was looking at her, his head slightly angled, a peculiar, flattering gleam in his eyes.

‘I see.’

She held her breath against an unbidden flare of emotion, cleared her throat and focused again. ‘With your hands on the wheel, the impact from the accident jarred your right humerus, which then sat anteriorly from the—’

His deep soft laugh interrupted her. ‘Rewind a little, doc.’

‘I’m not a doctor.’ She wanted to be clear on her qualifications. ‘I have a Bachelor of Health Sciences with honours and am a member of the Australian Physiotherapy Association.’

‘And for now you are the lady who holds my future in the palm of her hand. I’ll call you “doc.” With your permission, of course.’

Libby stiffened. Talk about pressure. But then, he was paying the bill. She gave a hesitant half-shrug.

‘I suppose … if it makes you feel more comfortable.’

His gaze dipped to her lips, then caught her eyes again. ‘So—doc—you were saying.’

‘Your humerus—’ She stopped and bunched one hand to demonstrate. ‘The ball slid partially out of its joint and needed to be manipulated back into the centre of your glenoid cavity, or socket.’ She cupped her palm, pushed her fist in and locked the ‘ball,’ then disengaged it again.

‘Right. The ball—’ his own hand bunched ‘—goes into the socket.’ He fit his big hard hot fist inside her still-elevated palm.

At the instant of contact, Libby’s internal alarm blared and she jerked away.

Their eyes locked—his questioning, hers, she knew, wide and exposed. That tingling in her belly had intensified and the suddenly sensitive tips of her breasts tightened and ached.

But when one corner of his mouth hooked up the barest amount, Libby was brought back. As casually as possible, she scooped some hair behind an ear and willed her cantering heartbeat to slow. Crazy to even consider but …

Was he flirting with her? She couldn’t be sure. He was a superstar and …

It’d been such a long time.

Her last intimate relationship had ended four months after her accident. She’d thought fellow pro surfer Scott Wilkinson had been the sexist man alive, but Scott was an amateur compared to Alex Wolfe. This man’s power to captivate with a simple look, the slightest touch, was palpable. She’d like to meet the woman who was immune to the magic of that smile. Charm was as instinctive to this man as his taking a corner at death-defying speeds. That wasn’t to imply he would in any way be interested in checking her track out, so to speak.

More to the point, she wasn’t interested in a quick spin with him either.

Schooling her features, Libby straightened her spine and focused on business. ‘We’ll need to concentrate on a series of strengthening rehabilitative exercises.’

‘Sounds good.’

‘When would you like to begin, Mr Wolfe?’

‘Call me Alex.’

A perfectly reasonable request, she decided, noticing how his grey eyes seemed to sparkle at her nod of accent. ‘What if I set up a timetable—?’

‘I thought we could start tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow’s fine.’ Her voice lowered to a serious note. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that we’ll need to work hard. Consistently.’

‘I’ve no doubt you’ll bring me through in time.’

Frowning, she cast her mind back. Had she overlooked something?

‘In time for what?’

‘I’ll miss Round Three this weekend.’ A muscle in his cheek flexed twice. ‘Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. Round Four’s three weeks subsequent to that.’

Libby almost laughed. He was joking. But while his expression might be relaxed, the set of his square jaw was firm. He’d never been more serious in his life.

‘I was told you’d been declared unfit by your team’s doctor to drive professionally for at least six weeks.’

‘We’ll prove him wrong.’

She sat forward. He should be set straight.

‘Your trackside physician wasn’t able to perform the reduction. As you’d have been told many times now, delay can cause complications. An axial view showed stripping of the inferior glenoid and rotator cuff tearing …’

Her words dropped away as any patience she’d seen in his eyes on the subject cooled.

‘My assistant informs me,’ he said, ‘that your clients think you perform miracles.’

‘I’m not a saint, Mr Wolfe.’

‘Alex. And, believe me, I’m not after a saint.’

His eyes smouldered and that hot pulse in her belly squeezed and sizzled. When the beating slid to a lower dangerous point, Libby pushed to her feet, too quickly as it turned out. She tipped to one side and threw out an arm to steady herself. But Alex Wolfe was already there, standing close, an arm circling her waist, his solid frame effortlessly providing the support she needed.

She was five-six, but she had to arc her neck way back to look into his face … which was a mistake. When those entrancing lidded eyes fused with hers, she imagined that his hold around her middle cinched, bringing her front to within a hair’s-breadth of his … close to his chest … to those legs.

Giddy, she broke his hold and took two steps back.

As she willed the fire from her face and got herself together, he asked, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly. Thank you.’ Shifting the bangs off her cheeks, she gathered herself and resumed a businesslike air. ‘I presume you know where my practice is.’

‘All treatments will be conducted here.’

Her brows shot up. ‘My equipment’s at work.’

‘I’ll be honest.’ His free hand slid into his trouser pocket and his legs braced wider apart. ‘I’m concerned about the press. I have enough on my mind without watching out for headlines speculating on whether I’m a washed-up cripple.’

Her insides wrenching, Libby flinched.

In the second it took to compose her expression, Alex frowned as if he’d glimpsed and wondered at her lapse. With knees locked, she offered an indulgent smile.

‘I understand you might want to shield yourself. But I’m afraid—’

‘Everything you need will be brought in. I’ll have my assistant organise it. And I’ll double your fee to cover any inconvenience and time difficulties.’

She shut her dropped jaw.

Was she reading him right? Double your fee …? We’ll prove him wrong …? You’ll bring me through …? Did he think he could bribe her into cutting short his treatment so he could make his Round Four? Clearly Alex Wolfe wasn’t familiar with the terms caution or compromise. He knew only one way to get things done. His way. If she didn’t agree to his conditions—his offer—no doubt he’d find someone who would.

Which left her two choices.

She could bow to the inevitable, agree that all work be carried out on his private premises and take the fortune he offered as well as give the all clear when he deemed, whether he was fit to return to driving in her opinion or not. Or she could tell him she couldn’t be manipulated by his charm or his pride. That her ethics were more important to her than money. More important than anything.

But there was a third option.

Decided, she looked him in the eye. ‘I’ll speak with your assistant. Get the ball rolling. We’ll start tomorrow morning.’

A shadow swept over his expression, so fast she almost missed it. She recognised the emotion. Disappointment. He’d thought she’d put up more of a fight before capitulating to his terms, even for show’s sake. Pity she couldn’t set him straight, but that would come … when the time was right.

She headed for the door. ‘I’ll be back in the office in half an hour. Your assistant can call me any time after that.’

With long fluid strides he caught up, a satisfied smile tilting his lips. ‘I do believe I’ll enjoy working with you, doc.’

Doc. Walking side by side down the hall, Libby grinned.

‘Perhaps I ought to wear a white coat and stethoscope when I call next,’ she said, a slightly mocking edge to her voice.

‘Feel free to wear whatever makes you comfortable. I will.’

‘Oh, there won’t be much need for clothes,’ she said, stopping before the front doors. ‘On your part, at least.’

His hold on the handle froze.

Swallowing the grin, she brushed his hand aside, opened the door and stepped out. ‘See you tomorrow. Nine sharp.’

Walking away, she felt his surprise and curiosity drilling her back. But if her last comment was loosely inappropriate, she was okay with it. He’d needed to be pulled up and using his own level of language.

Alex Wolfe didn’t know how well she understood his mind. She knew about burning passions. About setting a goal and never losing sight of it. She also knew how it felt to lose the capacity to chase and hold onto your dream. To have to reinvent yourself and leave that other more natural you behind.

Six weeks rehabilitation? Hell, Alex Wolfe didn’t know how lucky he was.

But slow and steady won the race. This race anyway. She’d get him into a routine, he’d feel the positive results and when the time came she’d make him see how detrimental—possibly catastrophic—returning to the track too soon could be. Until then she’d be on her guard. She couldn’t deny that those subtle looks, his unmistakable body language, his casual touch, affected her, and Alex knew it. He assumed he could manipulate her, charm her, perhaps even intimidate her into getting what he wanted.

Unfortunately for Alex Wolfe … not a chance.

Libby slid into the driver’s seat. She was about to turn the ignition when her stomach twisted, like it had earlier when he’d tossed off that unconscious slap in the face. Her hand ran down her left thigh, over the patella. Then her fingertips traced the line where she and the lower limb prosthesis became one.

Washed-up cripple …

Long ago she had finished crying and asking herself, What did I do to deserve this? With the support of family, friends and professionals she’d moved from beneath those dark clouds of self-pity. Helping to rehabilitate others had brought new and worthwhile meaning to her life. But sitting here, remembering the gleam in Alex Wolfe’s eyes when he’d looked at her that certain way, she couldn’t mistake the pang in her chest or the choking thickness in her throat.

Her hand skimmed the shin she couldn’t feel. Would Alex Wolfe see her as less of a woman if he knew?




CHAPTER THREE


LEANING his good shoulder against a patio column, Alex kept his eye on Libby Henderson’s silver sedan as it looped the circular drive and headed out. An intrigued smile lifted 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 Henderson was World Surfing Champion a few years back.’

Alex recalled her radiant can-do glow, the determined look in those swirling amber eyes, not to mention the alluring beach-babe hair and tan. Elizabeth Henderson, world champion surfer? He grinned. Sure. It fit.

‘I had no idea,’ he admitted. ‘Water sports aren’t my thing.’ He and Libby had even had that discussion. ‘I don’t much follow female sport either. Do they televise women’s surf championships?’

With a sardonic grin, Eli collected the document Alex had set aside. ‘For a smart man, you’re one hell of a chauvinist.’

Alex held his heart. ‘You’ve wounded me.’ Then he offered up a conciliatory smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m on top of it. When Libby Henderson sets her mind to something, she does it her way and leaves the rest for dead. Which can only bode well for her performance as a physio.’

Dark brows knitted, Eli was flicking through the document, sifting through data. Eli was a hound for tracking down and assimilating facts. Which begged the question …

Eyes narrowed, Alex swung his chair one way, then the next. Finally he asked, ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Libby Henderson’s past first-up?’

Eli continued analysing the pages. ‘I wanted you to meet her without any preconceptions.’

‘I don’t see how knowing about her sporting acumen could hurt.’

When Eli kept his focus on the document, Alex’s antennae began to prickle. Had being cooped up without driving privileges brought out a paranoid streak? Or was there something more to Libby Henderson? Something that Eli, for some curious reason, preferred his boss not discover?

He’d set out to hire someone who would be malleable to his needs. That objective hadn’t changed. And yet after a single meeting he couldn’t deny he was intrigued to learn more about this former surf queen turned sports star physio. Was his curiosity in part due to the fact that Libby reminded him of his sister? She and Annabelle conveyed a similar almost regal reserve, although Alex well remembered his sister in her younger years—open and vibrant. So eager to experience all life had to offer. He’d wager Libby harboured a more effervescent side as well. Either way …

Eli leaned over to point out some anomaly in the document but Alex found his thoughts still on Libby.

An attractive option. Boundless possibilities.

Yes. When Ms Henderson visited next, he’d be certain to dig deeper.




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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