Interview with the Daredevil

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘Transport’s taken care of,’ he said, sliding a hand into hers as if it were the most natural thing in the world, while she darted a frantic glance towards the terminal before deliberately relaxing.

  She’d left most of the gutter journalists who’d made her life hell for the past few weeks back in Canberra so she should be safe from prying eyes here. Time for a fresh start, free from looking over her shoulder every two seconds.

  Glancing at her hand in Roman’s, boy, had she got that fresh start and more.

  It helped she’d cut her hair and had streaky blonde foils skilfully woven through it, plus gained a few pounds. The weight added softness to her previously angular frame and she loved not having to watch every single calorie cooked and blanched and trimmed of fat by a personal chef.

  If Roman’s reaction to her new curves was any indication, she wasn’t the only one appreciating the extra kilos.

  Misinterpreting her baulking, Roman glanced at her. ‘Too hot for you?’

  He was talking about the tropical Queensland weather but, buoyed by their recent escapade, she sent him a coy smile.

  ‘I can handle it.’

  He raised a brow at her innuendo and laughed. ‘I’m liking this new you better and better.’

  He tugged on her hand and she happily fell into step beside him, proud when covert glances slid their way. Paparazzi she loathed; envious women she could handle.

  And there were plenty of them, normal, red-blooded women who couldn’t help but stare at six feet plus of gorgeousness.

  She wondered if Roman noticed the swathe he cut through the terminal but he seemed oblivious, his gaze searching for someone.

  ‘There’s our man,’ he said, pointing to a suited chauffeur holding up a placard with GIANAKIS in bold print.

  ‘You’re Greek?’

  The fact she didn’t know his surname until now would’ve seriously distressed the old her. But the new, improved model liked the fact she’d hooked up with an incredibly sexy guy without the formalities of surnames.

  He didn’t know hers for that matter and she couldn’t care less. If he was up on world politics he’d know it anyway, for Earl Beckett had been a fair, well-loved prime minister renowned for his patriotism and sense of humour. Pity that hadn’t extended to home so much.

  And the fact the Beckett name was so well known here was the reason she’d be using Ava Beck as a pseudonym. Everything she achieved in her new life would be courtesy of her achievements, not her name.

  ‘Mum’s Greek.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘English apparently.’

  A studied blankness settled over his face, a well-practised mask if the speed in which it descended was any indication as she silently cursed her blundering.

  Shunning her past was one thing, but forgetting the etiquette drummed into her at finishing school? Unforgivable.

  Hating the prolonged silence after the closeness they’d established on the jet, she rushed on. ‘Sorry for prying—’

  ‘Don’t apologise. My questionable paternity is something I dealt with a long time ago.’

  But as he strode towards the chauffeur and she all but ran to keep up she knew he was wrong. By the rigid shoulders, tensed jaw and grim-set mouth, Roman hadn’t dealt with his paternity issues, not at all.

  And while it was none of her business, and went against her new motto to live in the moment, she wondered what really went on behind that handsome face and wished he felt comfortable enough with her to blab the way she had on the flight.

  Who knew, maybe he’d let her in over the next few days? Interviewing the guy was guaranteed to give her insight into more than his love of extreme sports.

  Though the real question should be did she want to get close? And what would be the consequences for her naïve heart if she did?

  Roman had stuffed up.

  Sure, he’d had good intentions securing a trial for Ava with Rex and he’d been looking forward to continuing what they’d started in her hotel room that night in Melbourne.

  But having good motives and craving good sex were a far cry from how she’d made him feel on the jet: as if he wanted to blurt his whole damn life story and there was no way he’d go there.

  The next few days were about work for Ava, checking out sporting hot spots for him and indulging the powerful chemistry between them.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  The more time he spent with her, the more he wondered what kind of a jackass her ex was. It had been bugging him since last night when they’d had sex and now after their mind-blowing encounter on the jet: what sort of an idiot wouldn’t appreciate a sensual, lively woman like Ava?

  She’d mentioned he’d been a family friend and there’d been limited sparks but hell, the guy must’ve been a eunuch not to want to jump Ava every second.

  He’d had friends with benefits over the years, long-standing casual friendships with women who turned him on. And while he wouldn’t put Ava in that class with her ex, he couldn’t comprehend how the guy hadn’t ravaged his wife every chance he got.

  Then she’d said all that stuff about not really knowing who she was and sacrificing her life for her dad and he’d wanted to strangle the men in her life for denting her confidence. Though considering what they’d done on the jet, he liked the fact she was heading down the road of self-discovery with him as a passenger.

  If he hadn’t stuffed up enough by allowing her to creep under his guard, he’d taken it a step further, letting her innocuous question about his father get to him.

  She’d seen right through him, hadn’t bought his brush off. And after the way she’d opened up to him on the plane, he’d felt like a real jerk. Not that he wanted to discuss his paternity, or lack of, with a virtual stranger, it was how he’d handled it that really peed him off.

  ‘You’re awfully quiet.’

  Ava’s soft, cultured voice stopped him from stepping further down the path of remembrance, a path he’d trodden all too often with Estelle kicking and screaming every step of the way.

  ‘Mentally planning.’

  ‘Planning what?’

  With an exaggerated wink he knew would lighten the unexpected sombreness since his paternal gaff, he said, ‘You’ll see.’

  She smiled as he’d intended and his chest considerably lightened at the sight of that delectable mouth curving upwards.

  ‘Should I be worried?’

  ‘Very.’

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder towards the tarmac. ‘What happened on that jet? Call it a prelude.’

  A delicate pink stained her cheeks, highlighting the incredible blueness of her eyes.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘A few days you’ll never forget.’

  He kissed her to prove it.

  Ava slid into the back seat of the white limousine sedan and resisted the urge to lie across the pewter leather seats.

  She needed a lie down, desperately. Roman had promised her a few days she’d never forget…she practically squirmed at the thought, remembering what he’d done to her at the hotel, and again on the jet…

  ‘Comfortable?’

  Knowing her cheeks would be lit like a beacon courtesy of her thoughts, she nodded.

  ‘Rest up, you’re going to need your strength.’

  Risking a quick glance his way, she couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘Stop looking at me like that.’

  ‘Like this, you mean?’

  He leered at her and wiggled his eyebrows until she laughed.

  ‘You’ve got me all hot and bothered,’ she murmured, hoping the chauffeur didn’t have bionic hearing.

  Leaning across the roomy back seat, he murmured in her ear. ‘That’s the idea.’

  Needing some time to cool down before she melted all over these very expensive leather seats, she nudged him away with her elbow.

  ‘I’ve got a very important article to write, don’t forget.’

  He folded his arms and tried a mock frown, which lost i
ts impact with the corners of his mouth twitching.

  ‘I’ve got work to do too, making sure you paint me in the best light possible.’

  ‘Good, glad we’re both clear.’

  He beckoned her with his finger and she edged forwards warily.

  ‘We’re also clear that it pays to mix business with pleasure, right?’

  He ran a fingertip down her bare forearm, the fine hairs snapping to attention like the rest of her body.

  Sheesh, for a girl who’d never been all that interested in sex it was all she could think about now. And while she could blame it all on Roman, she should be thanking him instead. She’d never felt as alive as she had the last twenty-four hours. To think, it was only the beginning…

  ‘Hold that thought,’ he said, his knowing expression making her blush all over again.

  And she did, tuning out the chauffeur’s mini-documentary as he extolled the virtues of Miami High’s Hollywood-esque sign on a hill, the wonders of millionaire row on Mermaid Beach, the attractions of Broadbeach and the cosmopolitan nightlife of Surfers Paradise.

  Thankfully Roman kept up a steady conversation with the zealous driver, leaving her to mull and ponder and wonder how a staid, sedate divorcee had been thrust into a whirlwind fling with the hottest guy ever.

  When she didn’t come up with any answers, she thanked fate anyway.

  The moment Rex had given her a trial run in a field she coveted, Ava had opened that part of her mind long suppressed and started to use her writing brain again.

  Her imagination slowly stretched and flexed, closely observing the world around her, describing everything she saw from wizened old men to harried mums yanking recalcitrant toddlers along. Phrases flitted through her head constantly, word snapshots of a rich, vibrant environment.

  She wanted to write. She had a chance and she’d make sure this article on Roman was the best darn thing she’d ever produced. Probably not very difficult considering the last time she’d written anything was for her Year Twelve Lit exam.

  With her critical eye on high alert, words fizzed and bubbled and coalesced in her mind the instant the doormen opened the monstrous glass doors and she set foot inside Palazzo Versace.

  Breathtaking, superlative, indulgent and opulent sprang to mind and her fingers itched with the urge to start writing again.

  She loved this buzz, this pre-writing state where sentences or paragraphs or opening lines shimmered into consciousness, as she wondered for the umpteenth time how she could’ve shoved all this aside to do the right thing.

  ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she said, trying not to appear like a gawking tourist as she did a slow three-sixty.

  ‘Sure is.’

  Her wide-eyed gaze landed on Roman, who wasn’t looking at the foyer.

  ‘You don’t have to try those lines any more, remember?’

  She lightly touched his arm, her fingertips yearning to do so much more. ‘I’m yours.’

  Momentary alarm turned his eyes ebony as she quickly amended, ‘For the next few days.’

  She had her answer right there to the nebulous question floating around in the back of her head: what would happen beyond the next week if things between them deepened?

  Roman hadn’t spelled it out as such; he hadn’t needed to, they’d both known the terms of this going in.

  Brief fling. Limited to days. No regrets.

  So why did that flare of alarm hurt?

  Desperate to move onto safer ground, she swept her arm wide. ‘I like the neo-classical look.’

  His eyes narrowed imperceptibly, shrewdly assessing, as he saw straight through her lame attempt at changing the subject.

  ‘I like the sofas.’ He paused, sending her a loaded glance that curled her toes. ‘A couple could get mighty comfortable on those.’

  Shaking her head at his exaggerated wink, she focused on the sofas in question, admiring their beauty more than the comfort factor.

  Gold embossed and circular, they featured beautiful magenta orchids in the middle as a striking offset. Truly spectacular, along with the signature cushions in shades of mint green, pale blue and tangerine, the gold and cream marble floors, the elaborate mosaics, the giant crystal chandelier overhead, the ebony grand piano and the huge circular table dead centre of the entrance doors bearing a detailed floral arrangement that drew the eye.

  ‘You’re taking mental notes?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s the writer in me.’ She tapped her temple. ‘Now I’m switched on up here, can’t turn off.’

  ‘One of the many things I admire about you, your creativity,’ he said, lifting her spirits by knowing the exact right thing to say at the right time.

  Flustered by how he made her feel, she blurted her first thought.

  ‘I haven’t even written my first article. How would you know?’

  His killer smile forewarned an incoming repartee missile she had no hope of avoiding.

  ‘There are many ways to demonstrate creativity.’

  An instant image of how they’d ensured privacy on the jet, by sliding together compartments similar to those in first class on commercial airliners, and the subtle readjusting of clothes without disrobing to pleasure each other, reinforced his statement.

  ‘As for your article, maybe I can get a sneak peek at your literary talents while you’re interviewing me?’

  Lowering his voice, he added, ‘You know, while we’re mixing business and pleasure.’

  The word pleasure slid off his tongue like warm honey and she shivered in anticipation. No way would she get any work done with him looking over her shoulder and an errant thought suddenly struck.

  ‘We’ve got separate rooms, right?’

  His lips curved at her wary tone. ‘Redundant, considering our arrangement—’

  ‘I need my own space to work.’

  Hating how panicked she sounded, a fact he found infinitely amusing by his belligerent expression, she toned it down a notch.

  ‘And don’t call it an arrangement. We’re having a fling. Much more exciting.’

  She almost tossed her hair for good measure.

  His grin made her want to throttle him but the thought of placing her hands around his throat led to more pleasurable thoughts of what she could do with her hands on his body.

  With a mocking half-salute, he said, ‘Fling. Got it.’

  ‘Shh, keep your voice down,’ she hissed, old habits dying hard as she quickly scanned the foyer for signs of disguised reporters bearing recording devices.

  His smile faded as she deliberately relaxed her tense shoulders.

  ‘You’re not still harassed by paparazzi?’

  ‘Lord, I hope not.’

  Her fervent response garnered a long look and she sighed. ‘I’ve put up with being scrutinised and photographed and questioned for years. After a while the avoidance behaviour becomes ingrained.’

  As for the rest…she suppressed a shudder at the memory of the full-page spreads devoted to her divorce.

  ‘Know what you mean.’

  He froze and, confused, she frowned. ‘How?’

  For a second she saw that flare of panic again, as if he’d said too much, before he blinked and erased it.

  ‘Extreme sports gets its fair share of publicity. News hounds follow the elite around in any sport so I’ve seen it firsthand.’

  A perfectly rational, logical explanation. Then why the conviction there was more behind his sound response?

  ‘Is this going to be a problem for you? Us being seen together? Because if it is…’

  Rather than being impressed by his concern, she hated that he’d given her an out. It meant this thing between them didn’t mean much to him, that he could take or leave their time together and that stung as much as the blasé way he’d thrown it out there.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ she muttered, aiming for cool but sounding like a petulant kid regardless.

  ‘Hey, you okay?’

  She’d learned to hide her feelings many years ago, to ma
sk her true emotions, to always, always, present a poised, confident mask to the world.

  Someone could be watching was her dad’s favourite indoctrinating phrase and she’d taken it to heart, initially practising for hours in front of a mirror to get her ‘all’s right with the world’ face under control.

  So where the heck was her famed emotional control now, when a lump the size of the chandelier overhead welled in her throat, making her want to blubber?

  His hands sliding around her waist, gripping her firmly, didn’t help.

  ‘I want this, Ava, I do, but not at the expense of your career.’

  He paused, as if searching for the right words, the first time she’d seen him as anything other than commanding, and the hint of uncertainty was what captured her attention the most.

  ‘You’re on trial, this is your first writing gig and I’ll be damned if I screw that up for you, no matter how much I want you.’

  His sincerity rattled her as much as his concern. For all his witty one-liners and constant flirting, Roman actually cared enough to put her career, her needs, ahead of his.

  It blew her away.

  No one had ever done that: not her dad, her mum, her ex-husband. Yet here was a guy she’d known for a day putting her first and it made her feel special for the first time ever.

  Clearing her throat and hoping what she had to say wouldn’t come out a squeak, she eyeballed him.

  ‘I’m onto you.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Uh-huh. For all your roguish charm, you’re actually a big softie.’

  She didn’t understand his fleeting relief as he nodded.

  ‘Yeah, you’re onto me.’

  Releasing her arms, he patted his chest over his heart.

  ‘Pure marshmallow in here.’

  ‘Lucky I’ve got a sweet tooth.’

  ‘Yeah, lucky.’

  His kiss stole her breath but as she gave herself over to the pleasure of it she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d used it as a distraction.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROMAN paced his deluxe suite, desperate to shake off the uncharacteristic nerves.