Her father, an English teacher, had cautioned her to hold a little back, to develop other skills, to have a backup plan, but she’d had a hard time following his advice. Although she never felt that she fit well socially within the culture of ballet, among the stick-thin, swan-necked blond girls with their perfect buns and perfect turn-out, she lived and breathed the spirit of dance. And eventually she found herself rising above those pretty blond heads, soloing out in the footlights while the girls who’d mocked her voluptuous figure and uncontrollable red hair stayed in the chorus.
A foot injury in her second year at Julliard put an end to all her dreams. A tiny bone — something she’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce — broke under the impact of a grand jeté she’d landed just slightly wrong. The bone wasn’t something that could be splinted; she’d had to stay off her feet — how hard that was to do she’d never imagined until she tried it for four months — to let it heal on its own. When she finally went back to classes, not only had she lost the conditioning she’d worked so hard to achieve, it was immediately clear that however well her foot might hold up in her everyday life, it was no longer able to take the stresses of a serious dance career. By the end of each three-hour master class, she was sobbing, half in pain, half in frustration.
It was only months later, after she’d mourned her lost future, that she began to remember, and appreciate, her father’s advice. She enrolled at NYU as an English major, then switched to journalism. She’d discovered — to her surprise — that her life was big enough for two passions. She loved everything about it — the sleuth-work of research, scrambling for deadlines, exposure to the most captivating personalities and burning issues of the times.
Not that she didn’t have regrets. Not that she didn’t miss pushing her body to the limit … the almost unbearable rigor and the giddy reward. She couldn’t bear to dance even casually anymore, to feel the results of her lack of regular practice, her clumsiness. After spending years learning to fly through the air, she was earthbound, wings clipped. She hated to be reminded.
And now she’d turned sports reporter overnight.
“This is the plan,” Theo had told her. “As far as anyone knows, you’re a reporter with Cycling Today. You’re in Colorado to watch Jacob train and race, but also to learn a thing or two about the man behind the cyclist. It’s a fluff article. A celebrity profile.”
“A fluff article,” grumbled Ariel.
“It’ll give you license to giggle,” said Theo. “To bat your eyes.” At Ariel’s furious expression, Theo laughed aloud. He aimed a blow at Ariel’s mass of unruly red curls with a rolled up copy of Dwell.
“I didn’t become a journalist to bat my eyes,” said Ariel stiffly. Theo shook his head.
“Why did I give you this assignment?” He shot her a mournful look. “The opportunity to go undercover among the hard-bodies is completely wasted on you. Listen, just pretend you’re having fun. Pretend you’re a fan. Soften him up, get him to relax, and bam! Get the goods. You can think of this as your own little Temperance crusade. An assault on the unbridled male egotism of the sports world. Remember how much discipline and hard work it takes to be a ballerina? And how the media doesn’t pay a lick of attention? Think of all the dedicated athletes that never get any respect, let alone a shoe franchise. Too many big men in the limelight owe it all to a little pill. Get them out of the way and there’s more room for everyone else. For the real He-Men.” He grinned. “And She-Men.”
“She-Women?” questioned Ariel delicately.
“Whatever,” said Theo. “Now go get him. Oh, and Ariel … ”
“Yes?” she said.
“While you’re out there pretending to have fun … ”
She arched a brow.
“Try to have a little fun, okay? It won’t kill you.”
“Thanks, Theo.”
“Anytime.”
Scrutinizing another photograph of Jacob Hunter, this time repping a cycling shoe, Ariel heard Theo’s words echo in her head.
Too many big men owe it all to a little pill.
Did that body come from a bottle? She gnawed her lower lip, peering at the photo as though it would divulge Jacob Hunter’s secrets.
The man was broad shouldered and lean; his upper body was classically proportioned, tanned to the color of tawny honey, while his legs were massively developed, like anatomy diagrams that showed each separate muscle in perfect definition, covered in smooth, golden skin that shone and rippled with the curves of the underlying shapes. Unbidden, the image of a racehorse’s glossy flank sprang into Ariel’s mind. She caught her breath. The muscles in her inner thighs were tightening.
God, what this man could do from a photograph … what would it be like when she was presented with Jacob Hunter in the flesh?
She flopped back on the enormous bed, rubbed her temples. Lucky for her, he would probably become a whole lot more resistible once she got into proximity to his massive ego.
Focus, Ariel. She sat up on the bed, leaned over the edge, and retrieved her notebook from her bag. She had work to do. An interview to prepare. What could she possibly ask Jacob Hunter? Her mind was as blank as the paper.
Do Italian models really shave your legs? Ariel groaned and threw herself back down on the bed. The smoothness of the fabric sent a shiver through her body. She imagined sliding her hands up another smooth, taut surface … .
What do a pro cyclist’s legs feel like?
Ariel sat up quickly. She raked a hand through her hair and straightened her shoulders. Even a fluff journalist should have better questions than the ones she’d been coming up with!
She paced the thick carpet. Small town hero. Home grown Colorado. Ariel sat down again and took up the pen with a determined air. She scribbled a line.
“How does it feel to be racing in your home state after so many successes in Europe?”
Not bad, she thought.
“You’re the favorite going into this race. Will victory on Colorado soil be sweeter?”
She sighed. This wasn’t exactly the incisive, hard-nosed interrogatory technique she’d cultivated in her journalistic career to date. But, she reasoned, she’d have to put him at ease first if she wanted him to believe that she was a glorified gossip columnist for a sympathetic publication.
Giving the list of questions up for a time when she felt more mentally astute, she began to flip through the issues of Cycling Today she’d bought before leaving New York, underlining the terms she’d have to look up. Peloton? Breakaway? Embrocation? She sighed. She had a lot of homework to do if she was going to convince anyone, let alone a professional cyclist, his trainer, and teammates, that she had anything to do with this particular specialty publication.
On the bedside table, several local newspapers were neatly stacked. Each one featured a front-page story about the next day’s qualifying race. It was clearly a tourist attraction. It was also clear that Jacob Hunter was the main event. She began to page through the papers. Once she got past the cover stories, she found the same kinds of local-interest articles, petty editorials, want ads, and crime blotters she’d expect from small papers anywhere. Small-time politicians bickering with the school board. Bored teenagers vandalizing cars and buildings downtown.
To an outsider, Vail was all glitz and glamour, but she could already see through the façade to the underlying dynamics. Vail depended on tourism, and the people in the surrounding areas — small towns with limited options — depended on Vail for their livelihoods. Ariel herself came from dairy country, but she’d had friends from farther upstate and from Vermont whose towns depended on seasonal attractions. Autumn foliage. Skiing. She had a sense of how the tourist economy worked. And a sense of the resentments it raised.
An article on the second page of the third paper she looked at — a seedier looking rag than the other two — caught her eye imme
diately. The headline read: “Hunter incites barroom brawl, narrowly avoids arrest.”
Ariel felt her pulse quicken. The article described an event that had taken place over the past weekend in the neighboring town of Minturn, Colorado. The prose was sensational, and took not a few liberties with grammar, but Ariel gathered that the story boiled down to this: Jacob Hunter had been involved in what was described as a “heated verbal exchange” with someone identified as “Brian Jenks, area man.” Ariel jotted down the name excitedly. Their verbal exchange had quickly progressed to an exchange of blows. Despite the headline, it apparently wasn’t clear which of the men had thrown the first punch — the only thing that saved one or the other from being arrested and charged with assault and battery. Neither of the men would disclose the nature of their disagreement, and none of the witnesses questioned had heard anything that shed any light on the issue.
Ariel’s journalistic spider-sense was tingling. Was Jacob’s fight a result of “’roid rage?” She’d learned that cyclists rarely used actual steroids. They didn’t want to gain the bulk. A boxy physique would interfere with their ability to haul themselves and their bicycles up mountainsides as fast as possible. But testosterone was frequently increased by artificial means, and testosterone could certainly drive what started out as typical male energy into the terrain of frightening, hair-trigger aggression.
Some small town hero, thought Ariel. How does it feel to be a thuggish fraud?
Ariel put down the paper and leaned back on the couch. Her diligence had paid off. She felt satisfied. Hunter’s bar fight hadn’t made national news. With any luck, it wouldn’t. That is, not until she found Brian Jenks and got the real story for an X-Ray exclusive.
The satisfaction was soon replaced by fatigue. But beneath the fatigue, she could sense a humming tension. Her muscles felt shaky. Over-caffeinated. Under-used. She already knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep.
A walk, she thought. She slipped her room key into her pocket and opened the door. The plush corridor was completely empty, and she padded silently through the maze of hallways. Armchairs were arranged in sitting areas by the elevators, and she paused here and there to inspect piles of magazines on low tables. They all had to do with cycling. Skiing. Fishing.
Coloradans love their sports, thought Ariel.
She took the elevator down to the lobby. The friendly woman at the reception desk had been replaced by a young man. The look he gave Ariel was more than friendly.
She flushed at the unexpected male appraisal. Surely she didn’t warrant that appreciative expression. Not in her casual, rumpled travel clothes, jeans and a boat-necked blue tee.
It was midnight. A few hotel guests were sitting around the fire with martini glasses talking quietly. The young man was just bored.
Ariel wound her way back to the elevators. She pressed the button for her floor — then, as the elevator glided upwards, leaned forward impulsively. She hit the button for the roof.
Chapter Three
The elevator door opened onto a scene of celestial splendor. During the day, she was sure the rooftop would boast an unparalleled view of the valley and the surrounding mountain peaks. But the vast bowl of absolutely black sky spangled with more stars than Ariel had ever seen far surpassed the glory of the daytime landscape.
She walked cautiously onto the cool marble that surrounded the swimming pool. The pool was large, the water dark, reflecting a thousand twinkling stars in its still surface. Ariel slipped off her sandals. She dipped a toe into the water. It was mild, almost warm. The night air was deliciously cool. Still. Silent. She felt hot and sticky from her travels. A wild impulse bloomed within her.
Suddenly, she was almost laughing. The air was so pure. The stars were so close. She felt the tension leaving her body. This was worth missing a few strolls by the Hudson. This was paradise.
She looked around, but of course there was no one. It was late. Anyone awake in Vail was out and about, drinking, mingling. She’d found a private spot. She was alone on the roof of the world.
Giddy, she stripped drown to her lace panties and bra and stood for a moment, face tipped up to the stars. She held up her arms in fourth position, turned a double pirouette. What had come over her? Was it the altitude? She didn’t care. Without another thought, she glissaded to the edge of the pool.
Diving into the water felt like falling into the sky itself …
Instantly refreshed, she set herself to swimming laps, making up for the forced inactivity of her day of cabs and planes, hours and hours in transit. She hated days when she didn’t move her body; going without any exercise left her jittery and off-balance. When she had counted off twenty laps, she let herself float like a leaf on the surface of the water, gazing up into the jeweled night.
Suddenly, a shiver ran through her body. She heard nothing, saw nothing, but she knew she was no longer alone.
A splash in the water near her sent a surge of adrenaline rocketing through her veins. She felt something stroke her leg as a body moved past her underwater. She began to count in her head. One one-thousand. Two one-thousand. Three one-thousand. She kept counting.
Didn’t whoever it was need to breathe?
A head surfaced, mere feet from where she was treading water, but it too dark to see the person clearly. Before she could do anything, a husky baritone came out of the darkness. The man who spoke didn’t sound remotely winded.
“The pool’s closed for the night,” he said. The observation was so preposterous that Ariel almost laughed aloud in spite of herself.
“Are you the hotel security guard?” she said.
“Would you believe lifeguard?” Ariel could tell from the man’s voice that he was smiling.
“Aren’t you off duty at this hour?” she responded.
Her alarm at finding her idyll interrupted by a strange man was swiftly transforming into a wild gaiety. A feeling of exhilaration. It was the night sky, the soft caress of the water, the distance from all the clutter and noise of New York City. She felt daring, free, invincible. She heard her own voice as though she were floating above her body. She sounded relaxed and flirtatious. She never sounded like that. Her voice usually had a pinched quality. Guarded. Even harsh. Theo had once called it a “go-thither” voice.
The man swam closer. Ariel could see the silhouette of muscled arms stroking the water.
“I take my job seriously,” the man said. “A good lifeguard is never off duty. Not when there are people in the water.”
“I take my job seriously, too,” said Ariel. She felt her heel bump the side of the pool and realized she’d been drifting backwards, away from the man.
“But you’re willing to break the rules,” said the teasing baritone.
“What do you mean?” said Ariel.
“Well … ” The man closed the distance between them. Ariel felt his hard, slippery arm brush her shoulder as he reached out to put a hand on the marble. “The pool’s closed,” he said.
“Here we are again.” Ariel laughed, painfully aware of the nearness of his body. His legs scissored the water to keep him afloat. She felt his thigh brush hers.
“Two rule-breakers,” he whispered.
Ariel strained her eyes but she still couldn’t make out his features. Only the dark outline of his broad shoulders, the line of his throat.
“I wanted to come to the roof,” she said. “I live in a city. I don’t think I’ve seen the stars in years.”
He lifted a dripping arm and pointed. She tried to look at the sky and not the unbelievably sexy contours of his bicep.
For the second time that night, Ariel struggled for the right word.
Wow.
She might not be able to see his face, but she could see enough to know that this man had a stunning body. Maybe he was a lifeguard.
“The big dipper,” he was say
ing. “Follow the line through the two stars that form the bottom of the bowl. That’s Polaris.”
“Polaris,” she repeated. She could feel him look at her.
“The North Star,” he said. He was so close she could feel his warm breath. “The pole star. It guides nomads. Wanderers.”
Ariel’s breath came shallowly. She’d never felt so drawn to another person. The sound of his voice. The heat of his body.
I can’t even see his face, she told herself. I don’t know his name. This is crazy. But she couldn’t deny it. Her whole body responded to him. His presence was teasing, gentle. Overwhelmingly, frighteningly male.
She heard herself asking: “Are you a wanderer?”
“Sometimes,” he whispered. He slid forward through the water, bracing himself against marble edge of the pool, arms on either side of her. She was trapped. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
“Tonight I seem to have been guided to you … ”
And with that, his lips lowered onto hers.
His kiss rocked her to her core. Desire bloomed low in her belly and rippled out like an earthquake, until even her fingertips felt hot, achy, super-sensitive. She could feel her pulse quicken, hear the blood pounding in her ears. She slid down into the water and he gripped her against his chest, his powerful legs keeping both their heads above water. His hands moved up her back, buried themselves in her wet locks. His tongue moved against hers. Hot. Expert. Insistent. She moaned and he deepened the kiss. They sank into the water, entwined, and surfaced, sputtering and laughing.
“Some lifeguard,” she said, her voice rich and low with desire. She took a steadying breath and put an arm behind her to brace herself on the edge of the pool. In a millisecond, he was upon her, his swift movement through the water sending a delicious wave that slapped against her breasts and made her gasp.
Heart to Heart Page 121
