Heart to Heart

by Meline Nadeau

  “Okay?” Jacob had to wipe another burst of champagne from his eyes. “You trying to drown me?”

  “I am trying to deify you, my friend,” shouted Steven, head tipped up toward the dimming sky. He hooted and flung the magnum, tackling Jacob and dragging him off his bike.

  “We’re the best,” Steven panted. “Enjoy it.”

  Jacob’s body was still surging with adrenaline. Steven was right. He needed to stop worrying. Too bad it felt like the problems he’d managed to leave behind at the starting line were right there waiting at the finish.

  Not now. Not now. Enjoy it, Hunter, he told himself. Jacob cracked his own magnum of champagne and soaked a howling Steven.

  “All right, all right,” Steven begged, warding him off. “Podium’s getting cold.”

  Feeling happier than he had in a long time, Jacob went to receive his trophy. But up on the podium, his momentary elation faded quickly. The flashing bulbs, the fat-cat grins of his sponsor’s representatives, the squealing women — he wanted out of there. Pushing through the throngs that swarmed the podium, he looked for the signs and banners that bore his name and the company he raced for. There were his people, such as they were. He barely felt the congratulatory thumps as he entered the little cordoned off area. He thrust his trophy and check at Ben.

  “Put these in the RV,” he muttered. He ducked behind the banners to change rapidly into his street clothes. His skin was still sticky with champagne — all he wanted was a shower and a rubdown. He had to get back to his hotel. Unfortunately, Vail was still in chaos from the race. Punch-happy brawlers were blocking the traffic patterns that the beleaguered police were trying desperately to reestablish. He pushed through the crowd, hoping his nondescript black t-shirt and jeans would provide enough of a disguise. He’d hardly gone five yards before a microphone thrust itself under his nose. A woman with frosted hair that looked harder and more protective than his helmet was staring at him through designer glasses. Her make-up was about three-inches deep.

  “Another magnificent performance from Jacob Hunter,” she exclaimed, blinking her thickly lashed eyes. “Jacob, you’re causing quite the sensation in Vail.”

  “Great,” he said, trying to move around her. Her cameraman was beaming a light into his face. He took a step and was almost clotheslined by the microphone wire. He stumbled and cursed. That would look good. Breaking his collarbone evading the press.

  The reporter didn’t seem to notice that he’d nearly sprawled onto the pavement. She closed the distance between them, still prattling. “Jacob, what would you say to people who wonder whether it’s physically possible to achieve the kinds of times you’ve been clocking?”

  He grunted, trying to shield his eyes from the light.

  “Jacob, what would you say to people who think you’re getting help?” She stepped even closer.

  “Jacob Hunter,” she said in ringing tones, “are you using EPO?”

  EPO.

  Those three letters hit Jacob like the prongs of an electrified trident. He still wasn’t used to reporters in the U.S. knowing anything about cycling, let alone being versed in the technical terms associated with cycling’s leading scandals. Hearing this woman rattle off the name of the sport’s most notoriously abused performance enhancing drug was amazing. More amazing by far than the accusation. He’d become accustomed to that back in France.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that this woman might very well be Ariel Hayes. She certainly wouldn’t have any reason to like him, not after the stunt he’d pulled earlier in the day. Maybe he’d managed to turn his celebrity profiler into a witch hunter. His sponsors were gonna love this. He switched on the charm.

  “I don’t have anything to say to those people,” he responded with a crooked grin. Experience had taught him that this grin was a lady-pleaser. “I’m not here to talk. I’m here to ride. I’m here to ride because I love it. I’m going to let my riding speak for me. I’ll see you at the Classic. Excuse me.” He pivoted and strode quickly in the other direction, ducking behind a row of press vans, and turning down the street where he’d parked his motorcycle.

  There it was. Shining blackly in the gathering dusk. A Ducati Monster. He’d be able to maneuver through the downtown mayhem and slip back to his hotel. A hot shower and a visit to Bernadette, his soigneur. He couldn’t wait.

  He straddled his bike, settled his helmet into place, and started to roll it out into the street. At that very moment, a cherry red convertible squealed up beside him. The driver’s side door flew open.

  “Where’s the criterium?” the woman shouted. Her voice was husky, urgent, and she nearly ran around the front of her car. She stood only a few feet away from him, her full breasts moving up and down against the thin fabric of her shirt. He put his feet down and steadied his bike, drinking her in.

  She was striking. A cascade of unruly red locks fell to her shoulders. Longer strands brushed the tops of her breasts. Her hair made a startling frame for her high cheek-boned face, the milky white skin dusted with pale freckles. Her enormous green eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with thick lashes. Her lips were full, the bottom lip maddeningly so. He couldn’t look at it without wanting to bite it. To take it between his teeth.

  “The criterium,” she was saying. “The criterium.”

  He’d forgotten she’d even asked him a question. Now those green eyes were turning to glimmering slits.

  “Dammit,” she growled, and turned away to get back into the car. He couldn’t help but follow the slender length of her graceful legs up to where her lush, perfectly shaped bottom filled out the back of her tight, knee-length black skirt. His groin tightened. He raked a hand through his hair ruefully. He was reacting to her like a middle-schooler. Must be the adrenaline.

  “Criterium’s over,” he called to her.

  She wheeled around and stared at him across the hood of the car. Then she cursed again in that low, husky voice. Jacob kick-started the bike and it roared to life.

  The woman had thrown open the door of her car, obviously furious. Suddenly, she shouted to him again, half in the door. “Who won?” she shouted.

  He grinned, not the crooked grin. A genuine smile, the first real smile he’d managed in weeks. “I did,” he answered. After doing everything in his power not to draw attention to himself, he couldn’t believe what he was saying. But the look on her face was worth it. He closed his visor and opened the throttle.

  Chapter Five

  Ariel squealed to a halt in front of the gigantic glass and brass front doors of the Alpenhof. She was fuming with rage. First, she’d been stood up. Then she’d found herself without a ride to the race. She was pretty sure she knew who she could blame for that oversight. She’d rented a car and fought her way through traffic and pedestrian throngs only to find that she’d missed the race entirely.

  To top it all off, when she’d finally encountered Jacob Hunter, it was completely by accident. He’d caught her totally off-guard. She’d looked frazzled and foolish, and he’d looked handsome as the devil himself, delivering an irresistibly impish grin before abandoning her on the street. Who did he think he was? Oh, right — the hottest star in international cycling. Ariel, however, refused to be intimidated. She would get her story — and do her damnedest to deflate Jacob Hunter’s massively engorged ego while she was at it.

  She threw her keys at the valet, too angry to feel guilty about the shocked look on his young, friendly face. Stalking into the lobby, she immediately identified Hunter’s broad back on the far side of the lobby. He was leaning unconcernedly against a pillar, talking to a gorgeous, leggy blond woman in very short shorts and tough-looking hiking boots. Hunter’s posture was casual, but the woman looked tense and angry. Ariel wondered if Jacob had stood her up, too. The blond woman turned her back on him and walked away. Hunter stood and looked around him before heading toward the elevators, in the opposi
te direction.

  “Jacob Hunter?” Ariel called, stepping quickly after him, determined to overtake him before he could evade her again.

  He turned toward her. “Was that you I heard laying down some rubber outside? You’ve got NASCAR potential.” He grinned, resuming his position leaning against the pillar. Ariel slowed, her anger slipping away, leaving her feeling awkward, uncertain. He was so confident, so feline in his graceful, careless stance. The darkened strands of his blond hair fell over his forehead boyishly, skimming the tops of his cheekbones. His face was flushed from the race, and there was still a vivid excitement animating his chiseled features. His rippling muscles, his skin tanned golden from long days of outdoor training, all created the seamless impression of a man in top physical form, whose conditioning lent him not only power and athletic prowess, but grace and a kind of hyper-masculine beauty.

  Ariel was unnerved. His smile seemed friendly, but he’d already proven that he had no respect for her in a professional capacity. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but respond to the bantering tone in his voice, the frank appraisal in his golden eyes. His presence was invigorating, exciting. Maybe she could make this work …

  “Do you like female racers?” she asked him in the same light, flirtatious tone. She smiled at him, unable to resist the infectious charm of his boyish grin.

  “Only if they’re fast,” he told her, smiling more broadly. Ariel felt an electric current crackling between their two bodies. Why was she so powerfully affected by his presence, given all she knew, and all she guessed, about the less savory aspects of his character?

  “Name the top three female cyclists,” Ariel challenged him, trying to feel out his attitude toward other professional women trying to operate in male-dominated fields. Hunter’s smile faltered; he furrowed his brow as if searching for names he only vaguely remembered. Ariel nearly stamped her foot in frustration; it seemed he was as much of a chauvinist as she’d feared.

  But then Jacob’s face cleared, and he smiled again as confidently as before. “Easy,” he said. “Jeannie Longo, Connie Carpenter-Phinney, Kristin Armstrong.”

  Ariel realized he’d psyched her out with his false display of uncertainty. She was thrown off-guard. When would she be able to establish a clear understanding of Jacob Hunter the man — his motivations, his desires, his weaknesses? The success of her project depended on her success in navigating the shifting terrain of this maddeningly unpredictable man’s psyche, his relationships, his drives. So far, she couldn’t have predicted the next thing he’d say or do if her life, and not just her career, had depended on it.

  “Are you a race car driver?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

  “No,” said Ariel tartly, tiring of their contretemps. “I’m a reporter. Ariel Hayes, with Cycling Today. I’m doing a profile on you.”

  Jacob’s face clouded immediately. Seeing his reaction, but not willing to let him off the hook now that she had him dangling, she pressed her advantage. “You owe me an interview.”

  “I have plans,” he told her brusquely, making no excuses for his no-show that morning.

  Ariel blushed, thrown off-guard. “I didn’t mean now,” she said.

  “Right. So, have your people talk to my people — isn’t that how it’s done?” Jacob turned and walked away without another word. Ariel was flabbergasted. How had she managed to turn him against her so quickly? This guy has a real problem with reporters, she thought ruefully. She’d known Jacob Hunter was arrogant and unapproachable but she’d thought he couldn’t be worse than a congressman with a secret taste for prostitutes or a religious leader who embezzled from his congregation. She was wrong. This was on another level.

  Ariel prided herself on her intuitive understanding of other people’s secret motivations — the greed, lust and love of power they tried to hide from the rest of the world. And she had a feeling Jacob was hiding something big. Something he’d do just about anything to hide.

  Including walk away from the most sexually charged flirtation Ariel had experienced in years.

  Except for last night in the pool.

  Ariel tried to smother the memory even as it arose. That wasn’t a flirtation. That was … crazy. Like something from a dream. Something that happened to other girls. A beautiful fluke, a moment of connection under the stars … She’d never thought she’d feel such an intense, sensual bond to another person, definitely not so quickly, definitely not with a person she didn’t know, a person she hadn’t even really seen. And now, here she was again, with her body responding uncontrollably to Jacob Hunter!

  I should have stayed at sea level, she thought wryly. I must be lightheaded up here. She squared her shoulders. Well, be that as it may, she wasn’t giving up. She wouldn’t let her hormones and Jacob Hunter’s bad attitude take her down so easily. No matter how nasty Jacob got, Ariel could handle it. She’d find a way in.

  Maybe sooner than later, she thought as she turned and saw Ben, the assistant to the DS who’d picked her up at the airport, swaggering into the lobby. He had a package under his arm. When he saw her, he veered from his original course and came toward her with a broad grin on his face.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said. “Enjoy the race?”

  Ariel winced. This guy clearly thought he was God’s gift to women. But at least it was a weakness she could exploit. Plastering what she hoped was a seductive smile on her unwilling face, she said sweetly, “Loved it. What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “Fan mail for the Big Man.” Ben rolled his eyes and Ariel tried to look sympathetic. Clearly, Ben had issues when it came to Jacob Hunter. Well, what guy wouldn’t be jealous of that body?

  That body. Michelangelo could have taken a cue from Jacob Hunter.

  Even the thought of Jacob’s lean, impossibly muscled physique took her breath away. Which was not good. Not good at all. Ariel hoped she wasn’t blushing. “Do you know where Jacob is?” she asked Ben. “We were supposed to meet up, but I think we got our signals crossed about where.”

  Ben looked at her speculatively. It was obvious that a lot of women asked Ben about Jacob. But Ariel had nothing in common with those Italian models and ski bunnies. She was different. She had an assignment. This was business. Jacob’s looks, however undeniably sexy, were absolutely one hundred percent irrelevant.

  “The lady doth protest too much … ”

  Ariel’s father used to quote the Hamlet line whenever Ariel’s over-vehement denials set off his alarm bells. He’d say it drily, arms crossed. What he’d meant was, Ariel, you’re not fooling anyone.

  Ben grinned and said simply, “Sure, I know where he is. I can lead you right to him.”

  In the elevator, Ariel wondered what she had gotten herself into. Ben held his peace, but he was still smirking at her in a way she didn’t like at all. As the floor numbers flashed by, she considered telling Ben she’d changed her mind. She’d catch up with Jacob tomorrow. After all, she doubted he’d be happy to see her again so soon after his hostile departure from their conversation. Maybe it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie. At least for the night. She could regroup. Come up with a new strategy. Or just order room service and take a bath.

  Too late.

  The elevator doors opened and Ariel followed Ben down the hall. “Where are we going?” she asked, but Ben didn’t answer.

  He rapped lightly on the door at the end of the hall. The door wasn’t fully closed, and as Ben pushed it open, Ariel saw the answer to her question. It was Jacob’s hotel suite. Even grander than Ariel’s, positioned so that the enormous windows of the central room looked out over the mountains. Ben called out, “Got your mail!” and a voice from the bedroom replied, “Bring it in here.” Gesturing with his head for her to follow him, Ben led Ariel into the next room.

  Ariel couldn’t believe her eyes. Jacob Hunter was lying on his back on a massage table. He was stark nake
d, except for a towel — a very small towel — positioned between his legs like a loincloth. A middle-aged woman with thick eyebrows and the physique of a wrestler was briskly massaging his legs. Ariel watched, mesmerized, as the jostling motion of the massage threatened to shake the towel entirely out of position. She was unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of Jacob’s perfect, smooth, golden body, revealed for her in all its glory. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow. He was covered head to toe in lean, hard muscle. His abdomen was like an anatomy study. Ariel wanted to touch it.

  Her open-mouthed stare and deep blush had not passed unnoticed. The thickset woman had stopped her massage to look inquiringly at her. Ben was watching her with a glint of malicious humor in his eyes, enjoying every second of her discomfiture. She’d been set up.

  “Ummm … ” she stuttered. Mercifully, her cell phone sounded from the depths of her bag and she fumbled for it. “So sorry,” she said, a trifle breathlessly. “It’s New York. Business. I have to take this.” She backed through the bedroom door, denying the call even as she pretended to answer it.

  “Fax?” she said brightly. “No, I didn’t get that fax.”

  Just before she made her escape from the bedroom, Jacob turned his head and opened his eyes to look at her — golden eyes that pierced her like lasers. She gave him a little wave, then covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “We’ll catch up tomorrow,” she said, in what she hoped was a professional, no-nonsense voice. She tripped a little over the doorframe and turned quickly, fighting to keep from breaking into an undignified run. She could hear the sound of male laughter — Ben? Jacob? — drifting after her.

  Back in her room, she tried to calm herself down with breathing exercises and, when that didn’t work, a stiff drink from the mini fridge. How could she have embarrassed herself so completely? She wondered if she’d ever be able to face Jacob Hunter again.

  Yes, she told herself sternly. She would be. Because she had to be. Because it was her job. She would continue her investigations tomorrow, as she’d planned. And she would pretend that nothing had happened. Mustering her resolve (and slugging the rest of her drink) she sat down to write up her notes for the day.