Taking Love in Stride

by Donna Fasano

  She sat down on the grass, and grasping her toes, gently pulled her body down over her outstretched legs. The steady pressure on her back and leg muscles felt wonderfully relaxing. And she knew she would need every bit of that relaxation if she was going to deal with Ian this morning.

  Where was he anyway? she wondered. It wouldn't surprise her in the least if he didn't show up at all. It would take only one phone call offering some business deal or other to make him shuck all his plans of training. The thought was as irritating as a persistent hangnail.

  Marveling at the range of emotions she could experience just thinking of the man, Andrea knitted her brow. She'd never reacted so strongly to another human being before. Except Robert. Her scowl deepened at the thought of her father, and she thrust it out of her mind.

  She inhaled and bent one leg behind her to stretch out her thigh muscle. What was it about Ian Powers that made her want to dispute everything he did and said? He made her want to prove him wrong, do exactly the opposite of what he demanded. She didn't stop to analyze why. She only knew that he needed to be shown that not everyone would bend to his will. Granted, she was embroiled in this whole mess because she had given in to him. But it was for a good cause. She was doing this for her students. Besides, she had no intention of bending any further.

  Smiling once more, she thought of all the fun she was going to have showing him that she, too, had a will of iron. Especially when it came to training. Her smile broadened.

  "What's so funny?"

  Ian's husky voice made her heart skip a beat. She glanced up to see him towering over her. Her stomach quivered with anticipation and she inadvertently placed her hand there. Everything about him was commanding: his voice, his stance, his physique. She had to fight the urge to get up and flee.

  Why did he ruffle her so? The pertinent question was why did she let him? There was nothing that said she had to be his friend. She didn't even have to like him. He wanted something from her, and she wanted something from him. It was as simple as that. All she had to do was see that he finished the Wilmington Challenge four months from now, and then she could collect his money, the money that would buy some of the new equipment for the school. After that, she need never see him again outside of parent night at the high school.

  Her gaze left his face to travel downward, lingering on his broad chest, then lowering further to take in his muscled legs and sneaker-clad feet. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips.

  "You are," she quipped lightly in answer.

  "Me?" Ian spread his arms wide, looked down at his cutoffs and T-shirt, then looked back at Andrea. "What's wrong with me? I'm ready to run."

  He could see by the look on her face that she wanted to laugh, but was holding back. She pointed to his shorts.

  "Those were blue jeans once."

  "Yes," he said. "I took the scissors to them this morning."

  Her silky blond hair brushed against her face as she shook her head, and then she did laugh.

  His lips thinned with irritation. He hadn't been sure what to expect from Andrea this morning. After last night's little tirade in the restaurant he thought she might still be angry. Her anger he could have handled; her ridicule he could not.

  "These shorts—"

  "They'll cause your thighs to chafe," she interrupted. "And those shoes will never do."

  Ian was incredulous. "What's wrong with these shoes?" His eyes dropped to his feet and he unconsciously wiggled his toes in the canvas sneakers. When he looked up at her, his eyes were narrowed. "You never said special attire was required. We're only going to jog a few laps anyway."

  "Is that what you think we're going to do?" Her voice rose an octave. "Jog a few laps?"

  She was extremely aggravating, he thought, but her eyes were incredible when she was angry. They darkened to a crystalline blue, hardened to chips of wintery ice. A sudden thought flashed through his mind and he wondered how those icy eyes would look melted in the heat of passion. But her frigid tone killed the image he was conjuring.

  "Listen, Ian, if you think running a few easy laps is going to get you into good enough shape to participate in a half marathon, then you have another think coming."

  She turned from him, then twisted back around, offering him a withering glance. "And don't use that word. I don't jog. I run." She turned again and took a few steps, mumbling, "I hate that word."

  "Ah-h-h," Ian teased, "she doesn't jog. She runs."

  Andrea whirled on him. "This isn't fun and games, Ian. It's a very serious subject to me. Non-runners have contempt for people who run. They think runners are idiots with only two brain cells to rub together. Why else would we be pounding the pavement with grimaced faces?"

  "Whoa, wait just a minute," Ian said, an indignant frown on his brow. "Come down off your high horse a minute. You make it sound as though every person who doesn't run has a low opinion of those who do. I, for one, respect those people out there 'pounding the pavement' as you call it. And my father would love to run, but he's not able to."

  He watched the anger drain from her as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to preach." She brushed her hair back from her face, but the fine strands fell from her fingers to curl at her cheekbone as before. "It's just that I want you to know that training isn't easy. And if you want to do this, you're going to have to work hard every day for the next four months. Even then, you might not be ready."

  "I understand all that." His voice was soft. "And I need for you to understand that I mean to do this. And I'm prepared to work hard."

  "Okay." She smiled at him. "I guess we should get started."

  "What about my shoes and clothes?"

  "Go to the athletic shop in the mall today," she said. "Tell the salesperson that you want a training shoe. I'll warn you now that they're going to be expensive, but don't skimp. Your knees, your hips, heck, your whole body will thank you for it."

  She ignored his "harrumph."

  "You can get some shorts there, too," she continued. "Buy something loose, comfortable, but supportive, in a fabric that wicks away sweat. Someone there can help you pick out a nice pair."

  Glancing down at his high-tops, she giggled. "It looks as though you've had those for years. But hold on to them, they're coming back into style, I'm sure." She laughed again. "They'll have to do for today. You won't be able to do much at first anyway."

  Won't be able to do much, she says. Ian gritted his teeth, refusing to comment. He'd just store that insult with all the rest she'd given him, way to the back of his mind. But, nevertheless, the insults rankled. Won't be able to do much. I'll show her, he thought. Just let him get her out on that track and he'd show her who wouldn't be able to do much.

  As Andrea demonstrated a series of stretching exercises, Ian watched patiently, his eyes traveling over her firm body and sculpted legs. Her flexing and relaxing muscles mesmerized him. The skimpy running outfit she wore exposed so much of her creamy smooth skin. He became fascinated by how apparently physically fit she was. He couldn't understand how such an irritating woman could be so tantalizing.

  "Ian?" His eyes snapped up to her face. "Are you paying attention?"

  "Definitely." He fought the impulse to grin.

  "I want you to be sure to stretch each muscle group before you run," she warned. "At least ten minutes."

  She stood and brushed off her bottom. Ian swallowed as he watched the movement against her silky shorts. Feeling his insides tighten, he wondered how such an innocent action could stir him so deeply.

  "Now, you try." Her voice brought his eyes once more to her face.

  He cleared his dry throat, then lowered himself to the ground, watching her long legs as he went.

  "Like I said before," Andrea told him, "you won't be able to do much at first."

  The warm desire he was feeling suddenly congealed to a thick, angry determination. He could do more than she ever imagined, he decided. A firm resolve settled in his chest a
s he stretched the length of his torso over his straightened legs.

  His muscles protested, burning with red-hot pinpoints of fire, but he ignored them and pressed himself down even farther.

  "Don't bounce," Andrea told him. "What you want is a slow, steady pressure. A stretch. Now, release."

  Ian stifled his urge to groan.

  "Now, again."

  Clenching his teeth, Ian proceeded to reach toward his toes again.

  "Legs straight," Andrea instructed. "Knees soft. Don't lock them. Good. And relax."

  After several sets of stretching and relaxing, she sat down beside him.

  "Now, bend your left foot behind you. Like this."

  Ian tried to contort his leg the way she was doing, but his knee didn't lay flat as hers did. His stuck up awkwardly, and the pain in his thigh was excruciating.

  "Press your left knee toward the ground."

  "You are kidding, right?" Ian growled.

  Andrea smiled and shook her head. "Nope."

  His back arched, and he grimaced at the effort. His knee didn't budge.

  The sound of her chuckle trickled over him, strengthening the stubbornness in his spirit.

  "Don't be disappointed at how you're doing," Andrea told him. "You can't expect much when your muscles are out of shape."

  Out of shape? He'd do this on willpower alone if he had to! He strained and pressed his knee toward the ground and was elated when it lowered a fraction of an inch.

  "Now, the right," Andrea said, seemingly oblivious to his success.

  Ian sighed with relief when he straightened and relaxed his left thigh muscle. But the pain started anew when he bent his right foot back behind him. His jaw tensed, and he suffered through the exercise.

  After twenty minutes of pulling, pushing and stretching, Ian was sure he'd used every muscle on his body because each one was screaming at him. His determination to prove to Andrea that he could do anything she instructed had foolishly led him to overexert. And her demands never diminished in the least—if anything, they increased.

  A slow burning anger began to build in him. What did she think he was anyway? A sideshow contortionist? He knew she was trying to push him into crying uncle. And he was just as mulishly intent on showing her he wouldn't quit.

  He once more found himself on the ground with his left leg bent to the side, his right extended.

  "Lie back," Andrea insisted.

  When he did, she ran an index finger down his left thigh and said, "See there, it's nice and limber now. Your knees are almost level. That's great."

  The contact of her skin on his and the smug tone of her voice ignited a flame of irritation in him. It swirled and mingled with the determination and anger and desire already burning in the pit of his stomach, making him want to reach out and... and... what? Teach her a lesson? Prove himself a man? Beat her at her own game?

  He didn't know. But the urge to snatch her to him, feel her body against his was overpowering.

  Andrea felt a little guilty for having pushed Ian so hard. He'd be sore tomorrow, she knew. She was crouched on the balls of her feet, her hand resting lightly on his knee when his fingers encircled her wrist, taking her completely off guard. His gentle tug overbalanced her and she tumbled across his chest. She felt his arms wreathe her waist and his fingers lock at the small of her back.

  Shaking her hair out of her eyes, she looked into his face and glared. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm taking a break."

  "With me on top of you?" she asked testily.

  She saw his eyebrows raise a fraction and his eyes lit with mischief.

  "That bothers you?"

  Her glare narrowed. "As a matter of fact, it does."

  "Well, by all means, let's fix that."

  He twisted his body and rolled until he was on top, looming over her, his hands still nestled at her back.

  "Better?"

  "Ian!" Her eyes went wide as she protested angrily, "I'm not a teenager. And I don't find rolling in the grass all that exciting." But the warm pressure of him made her heart beat erratically in her chest. Her breath started coming in little gasps. She swallowed nervously and felt a tremendous need to hide her reaction to his nearness.

  "Let me up." She tried to pull her arms free from where he had them pinned to her sides.

  "But I've been such a good boy," he whispered, turning a blind eye to her squirming. "I followed your instructions to the letter. Don't you think I deserve a reward?"

  His voice was like warm velvet, and she felt a heated desire swell inside her. She swallowed again and ground her teeth, determined that he wouldn't see the effect he was having on her.

  "Then, I'll get you a lollipop or something later," she spat out, struggling with renewed strength. "Let me up!"

  "A lollipop? But I'd much rather taste the sweetness of your lips."

  Ian's intimate words caressed her. Her blood rushed through her veins like liquid fire, heating every part of her. A giddy excitement slowly churned in her chest, building itself to a crazy speed, but through the flustered haze her mind fought for control.

  "You wouldn't dare!" She fixed him with a stormy stare, as her will to fight battled with the desire building inside her. "Ian," she warned.

  But he ignored her.

  He leaned even closer. She could feel his breath graze her cheek. "Ian." Her voice sounded weaker this time.

  Again, he acted as if he were deaf to her rebuff. "I can see your pulse pounding," he said. "Here." He placed lips against her temple where a delicate vein betrayed her. "And here." His mouth moved to the silky hollow of her throat.

  "Ian." She whispered his name with a plea, but whether she meant for him to stop or continue she couldn't tell.

  When he covered her lips with his, she stopped fighting and gave herself over to the sensations his gentle, searching kiss created in her body. She felt light and warm. The heat that radiated through every fiber centered in the core of her being, beating a throbbing rhythm there.

  The urge to arch her back against him was strong, and when she gave in to it, he deepened the kiss. His tongue petitioned entrance into her mouth and she opened it to his passionate exploration.

  Her mind began to spin until there were no thoughts at all. The only things in existence were his mouth on her mouth, his body pressing against her body and the desire that this moment should never end. But it did.

  When Ian lifted his head, Andrea lay there with her eyes closed, feeling her heart slow its racing. She opened her eyes slowly, reluctantly. After she did, she wished she hadn't.

  The grin on Ian's face couldn't have been wider.

  "Andrea, that was great."

  "Oh, God," she groaned. His grip on her had relaxed, so she pulled one hand free and covered her eyes.

  "I can't believe how your body was talking to me." He teased her with his brash tone and a cocky lifting of his eyebrow.

  But Andrea didn't find it amusing. Biting back a curse, she planted her palm against his jaw and shoved him off of her. She whipped herself to her feet and turned toward the track, calling to him over her shoulder.

  "It's time for your body to do some talking. See if you can keep up."

  Andrea ran off at a swifter pace than she knew he could match, at least not for any length of time. She wasn't just angry, she was livid. Part of her anger was focused on Ian, and she needed to get away from him, fast. But most of her fury was directed squarely at herself.

  Why did she react to him the way she did? She was an adult, wasn't she? Why couldn't she control her emotions? Why couldn't she control her own body's response to that man?

  At the first turn on the track, she glanced over her shoulder to see Ian trying to catch up with her. She lengthened her stride, desperate to put as much space between them as possible. When she was a half lap ahead of him, she slowed down just enough to keep the distance between them. She knew she should be running with him, coaching him, encouraging him, but she couldn't bring herself to do
that, not right now.

  As she ran, she kept looking over to her left toward Ian, trying to figure out what it was about him that made her forget all the promises she'd made to herself about staying away from domineering men. Pushy men. Overbearing men. Men like her father. Men like Ian.

  She lapped the track again.

  Why did she want him? She did want him. She had to admit that to herself. She'd wanted him from day one. Granted, he was handsome. Okay, gorgeous. With his dark eyes and hair and those wide, strong shoulders, any woman would say he was good- looking. But his character was everything she despised. Bossy. Arrogant. Aggressive.

  What was wrong with her? Forget him, she commanded herself. Pushing him from her mind, she trotted on, trying to relax and enjoy the run.

  The sun warmed her skin and she lifted her face to it. Birds were singing cheerily, and the fragrance of spring blooms was in the air, but it was impossible to find any pleasure when she was wrapped in such a thick blanket of emotion.

  Andrea rounded a turn and realizing she was halfway through her seventh lap, she glanced to her left. She slowed her pace when she didn't see Ian. Startled, she stopped and scanned the grounds. She saw him lying flat on his back on the other side of the track. Dashing across the fifty-yard line of the football field, Andrea headed straight toward him.

  She frowned when she saw his chest heaving. And when she knelt down beside him, he moaned.

  "Ian?"

  "I'm going to die."

  Relief flooded through her. She'd thought he was hurt.

  "Get up," she commanded.

  "I mean it," he groaned louder. "I'm going to die."

  "No, you're not." She tugged at his arm. "Come on, get up and walk it off or you'll start to cramp up."

  "Just let me lie here and die."

  "Ian, get up," she demanded, pulling harder.

  She helped him to his feet, and he leaned on her heavily. They walked several steps before either of them spoke. He started to cough and gasp for breath. When his fit was over, he moaned.

  "Ian." Andrea couldn't help laughing. "You didn't even run long enough to work up a sweat."

  "Good," he murmured, "then I won't smell bad at my funeral."